


...Wish I May...

by aksarah



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aksarah/pseuds/aksarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One fall evening three old men wish upon a bright, blue star, but will they get what they wished for...? Stancest. Genderswap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**.x. Monday Morning .x.**

            Stan awoke on his back in his bed to the kind of debilitating malaise that only a night of heavy drinking can bestow on a man. His head throbbed, his mouth felt like the floor of a taxi (had he been smoking?), and every cell in his body threatened him not to move a goddamn inch or suffer the consequences. “I am too old for this shit,” he muttered, reached for his glasses and instantly regretted it. He didn’t usually puke the morning after a bender, but damned if he didn’t feel like he might. “No no no no no…” he repeated, trying to soothe himself, took deep, slow breaths and drifted back to sleep. Moments later he woke to a door slamming somewhere nearby and clenched his teeth, wincing at the sound.

            He clenched his teeth.

            The thought of this action meandered around his migraine and danced across the backs of his eyes. His teeth. He turned his head, glacier slow, to the left and squinted at the nightstand.

            Glasses. Lamp. Alarm clock. Glass full of day-old polident and dentures.

            Dentures on the nightstand--teeth in his head.

            He pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth then dared to part them and feel the fronts. Yes. Those were in fact actual teeth in his mouth, not someone else’s dentures. This thought relieved Stan only slightly.

            If he weren’t so utterly damaged from drinking too much, he would have bolted out of bed and rushed to check them out in the mirror. But just the increase in adrenaline was enough to sour his stomach, so he lay where he was and sweated as panic started to rise.

            Perhaps his mad scientist brother had performed some sort of sci-fi hoodoo on him while he slept. Stan cringed. _Stanford._ Oh. Something happened last night. There was yelling. And McGucket was there? It seemed like there was more to the story, but try as he might, his mind could not put the pieces together. “Of course I blacked out when somethin’ friggin’ weird happens…” he groaned and cautiously pushed himself up and swung his legs out of the covers and over the edge of the bed. If he could get to the bathroom, take a piss and get some water down that would help, he knew that. He reached again for his glasses and put them on.

            “The hell…?” Stan sneered, took them off and squinted at them. Blearily, he repeated the motions three more times, but each time he got the same result. After the third attempt he examined them closely, but could not focus on them from the distance he was accustomed to holding them out to. He brought them closer. They were his. “Ya fix my eyes while you were at it, Poindexter?” he scoffed. His apprehension grew sufficiently to propel him to his feet and toward the bathroom despite the pain in his head.

            Stan flicked the switch for the night-light so as to not blind himself. Eschewing the mirror for now, he relieved himself. When he was done, Stan stood in front of the toilet with his penis in his hand and stared for a few moments. Usually, he couldn’t see much of either of them from this angle. “Huh,” he said dreamily. “Ya… fix my gut while you were at it…?” He put himself back in his boxers and staggered to the mirror.

            A twenty-something-year-old Stanley Pines gawked back at him.

            “The whole package, huh?” he muttered, face ashen, eyes wide in disbelief. “Ok. Really wish I remembered what the hell happened last night.” A sliver of memory flashed across his mind of his brother screaming at him, tears flying from his eyes as he charged at him, slamming him against the wall so hard he saw stars. Did that happen last night or was that just a nightmare? Stan’s heart twisted and he yanked the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet open. With trembling hands he found the aspirin and took several, washing them down with cup after cup of water. He panted and dared to look back up at his reflection. “Stanford…” he breathed and wincing, hurried from the bathroom to find his brother.

 

**.x. Sunday Night .x.**

            “Oh, donkyspittle…” McGucket sighed. “I sure wish there were somethin’ I could do. Poor Stanford.” He chuckled darkly. “Never thought I’d hear m’self say that! But I mean it,” he said, tucking Stan in.

            “Wish we could just… _be._ Start over.” Stan looked out the window. It was nearly dark in the room and only one star was visible, a bright blue dot in the heavens that shined down into his eye. “Wish he’d just be ok with lovin’ me…like I love him.”

            “I know, I know. Shush now. Git you some sleep. Here. Gimme yer teeth--now, don’t fuss none, I see yer polident there on the nightstand, ya big baby!”

            Stan reluctantly complied and removed his dentures, letting them drop into the glass McGucket held out for him. He let his arm fall back on the bed and closed his eyes.

            “There ya go. Sleep now. I’ll go check on our friend Stanford.” McGucket gave him a warm smile and trundled off down the hall.

.x.

            “Stanford, it’s just me, I’m a comin’ in.” McGucket opened the intricately carved wooden door to Stanford’s room and stepped inside. It was dark, but starlight gave a little illumination from the large window above the sofa. Stanford was curled up with his back to the door. A waste basket stood at the ready, but was yet unused.

            “Go away,” he slurred.

            “No,” McGucket replied, sweetly and seated himself at the man’s feet.

            “What?”

            “I’m just checkin’ on ya. Bear with me, Stanford.”

            “Why?”

            McGucket pursed his lips. “Well, I figure I done you wrong tonight by drinkin’ ya under the table like I done. I shoulda known you lightweights couldn’t kept up with a coot what’s been drinkin’ rotgut moonshine for thirty years!” He laughed lightly.

            Stanford sniffled. “Wasn’t your fault. I’m an idiot.”

            “Naw,” he said, patting his calf. “You’re a fool in love is all.”

            Stanford balled himself tighter, pulling away from McGucket . “No, I’m not. I’m a disgusting creature undeserving of…” His breath hitched as he stifled a sob. “Get out, Fiddleford. Go away.”

            The small man pouted, brows arched in pity. He got up and did was he was told. “Alright, Stanford. Rest easy, now.” When the door closed behind him, Stanford Pines buried his face in the couch cushions and bawled his eyes out.

            “If only we could… I wish we could… if people would just…”

.x.

            The air was cool, but not too chilly as McGucket stepped out on the porch. “Land sakes,” he said softly. “Those poor, poor boys. My heart, she’s a breakin’ for ‘em. Wish there was somethin’ I could do. Mebbe I could invent a gizmo what would restore their youth--give ‘em a second chance. Heck. Wish I could do that fer myself!” he chuckled sadly and looked up into the sky. One star in particular gleamed with an uncanny blueish brightness. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overalls and smiled at it. “Starlight, star bright,” he whispered. “First star I see t’night. Wish I may, wish I might…”

            Much to McGucket’s surprise, the star grew brighter. “Oh dear…” he muttered, frozen in place with fear. The light became more diffuse and appeared to be slowly approaching the Mystery Shack. “Oh, oh dear…!” he stammered, but just as his fight-or-flight mechanism was about to kick the door of his inebriation down, he noticed the blue blur had wings.

            “Fiddleford,” a lilting female voice called to him. “You have nothing to fear.”

            “Oh my lord...”

            She shook her head. “Nothing of the sort. I’m here to grant your wish.”

            He took a few steps backwards until he ran out of room and had to lean against the side of the building. “Ya have, huh? I may be drunker than a craphouse rat, but I know better th’n ta git m’self tied up in some sorta supernatural bait-n-switch.” McGucket raised a brow. “What’s the catch?”

            “I will give all three of you a second chance. But you must guide the twins. If by the time my star rises tomorrow eve, they must make amends.”

            “Tha’s it?”

“That is all. Do this and you may keep what I give you. Fail, and you shall wake on the morrow as you were.”

            He laughed and belched and his adrenaline ran out. “Sounds great. Sign me up!” The old man chuckled and passed out in a heap.


	2. Chapter 2

**.x. Monday Morning .x.**

            “Stanford!?” Stan shouted, then clenched his teeth and hissed. The gaps in his memory gave him a heightened state of alertness, surging him onward despite the throbbing pain that shot through his limbs and up to the space between his eyes. “Damnit, ya give me a new body but ya leave the hangover? Thanks a million.” He ducked into his brother’s room. There was a blanket on the couch, but no sign of the man. Stan could not find him anywhere in the house or basement, not even the attic. He must have left the building. Was that the slamming door he’d heard earlier? Had something happened to him as well? A new fear crept up into his abdomen, bringing with it a wave of nausea as he flung the back door open and looked out at the yard. The Stanley Mobile stood parked where he’d left it. He sighed with relief.

            “G-good mornin’ Stanley,” a voice he didn’t recognize greeted him. Stan turned and stared at the man sitting to his left on the porch wrapped in a blanket and holding a mug full of steaming hot tea. _His mug._ Stan blinked at him.

            “Looks like we got ourselves a mighty fine mornin’ at that.” He smiled a toothy grin up at Stan. He was clean shaven and wore round glasses.

            Stan frowned. “Who the hell are you and where’s my brother?”

            The man blinked. “Well there’s a fine how’ja do. I recognize you but… oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense.” He laughed lightly and took a sip of his tea. “Name’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Ring a bell?”

            Stan took an unsure step backward. “ _McGucket._ You too? Then, Stanford…?”  
McGucket put the mug down and stood, looping the blanket over his shoulders. “Reckon so. Looks like she got all three of us. Don’t that beat all.”

_“She?”_

            “You didn’t see her? Did you make a wish?”

            “McGucket, I don’t remember jack shit from last night.”

            He paused and the smile fell from his lips. “Oh. Oh dear. We best get inside and have a chat.” He scooped up the mug. “You want anythin’ ta eat? I’m starvin’.”

            Stan swallowed another wave of would-be puke down and shook his head. McGucket told him he’d cook something up for him anyway, maybe some toast or eggs and Stan detoured to the bathroom where he remained for several minutes.

 

When he entered the kitchen, the smell of toast greeted him, lighting up his brain with warmth and comfort. Sure, he’d have a slice. No butter. No milk— _god_ no milk. Water. Tea ain’t his thing. He thanked McGucket and watched the skinny young man before him delicately eat some scrambled eggs (which smelled pretty good now that the toast was going down ok).

            Stan drained the glass of water McGucket gave him and rolled it between his hands, searching for a way to start the conversation he dreaded having. “How old you figure we are, now?”  
            “Twenty-seven,” McGucket answered, confidently.

            “How you figure that?”

            “I wished to go back to before things went so wrong fer me. I was twenty-seven at the time, so was Stanford, and thereby, so were you.”

            Stan gave him a half-lidded, blank look. “ _Wished._ You tellin’ me we got wishes granted? By what?”  
            “A Blue Fairy.”

            Stan stopped playing with the glass and set it down slowly. “Go on…”

            “A legendary sprite known to bestow wishes on unfortunate souls who cry out to a blue star on special nights like last night.”

            “Fantastic,” he groaned. “Not that I’m complaining about having a killer bod again,” Stan smirked and flexed his pectoral muscles for emphasis. “But don’t wishes usually come with _catches?”_

            McGucket waved his fork. “I was about to get to that. You ever seen Pinocchio?”

            Stan’s lids descended again. “The cartoon?”

            “Disney, yes. Remember Jiminy Cricket?”

            “Vaguely.”

            “Well, the Blue Fairy granted Geppetto’s wish to make Pinocchio a real boy and she assigned Jiminy Cricket to be his conscious—to help steer him on the right path.”

            “Didn’t he get turned into a donkey?”

            “Almost. But with Jiminy’s help he was able to right himself an’ turn into a real boy for good.”

            “So where’s the cricket?”

            He smirked, waggled his eyebrows, pointed his fork towards himself and took another mouthful of eggs.

            Stan sighed, frowned, and scooped up a bite from McGucket’s plate with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “So you’re tellin’ me we got wished younger and we gotta be good or we don’t get to keep it?”

            He pushed his glasses up and looked away. “ _Essentially,_ that’s what I seem to understand, though my memory of it is a might hazy.”

            “You and me both, brother.”

            He looked back as if to ascertain if that was true. “But I do remember what happened _last night.”_

            They stared at each other for a beat in silence. Stan’s mind played back a jagged snippet of his brother screaming, his deep voice cracking. _‘Because it’s wrong!!’_ He shuddered.           “Lay it on me. I gotta bad feelin' I’m the reason he took off.”

            McGucket made a humming sound and patted his mouth with a napkin. Stan noticed for the first time that any trace of his lunacy had completely disappeared. “It all started with a few too many beers.”

            “My fault.”

            “How ya figger?” McGucket quoted him.

“I wanted to loosen him up. I just wanted him to talk to me for once so I kept puttin' fresh ones down as soon as they were near empty.”

            “Yes, well, when we ran outta beer, we started in on the whiskey.”

            “That explains a lot.” He rubbed his temples.

            “And I gotta apologize to ya as I did Stanford. I had been drinking much harder stuff fer years. I drank y’all under the table pretty early on.”

            Stan raised a brow. “Ah. So… did Stanford get…?” He wanted to say ‘pissed’, but that wasn’t right.

            “He got his feathers ruffled harder than he’s ‘customed to, I think.”

            Stan steeled himself. “Over what?”

            McGucket winced in anticipation of delivering the blow. “You insisted that the two of you could work it out and he insisted that it was wrong—that he was broken and you’d be better off without him.”

 

            “Don’t leave!” Stan heard himself scream, his memory unlocked by McGucket’s words. He stomped his foot down to emphasize each word that his brother was clearly not hearing. “You don’t have to go anywhere!”

            “I don’t fit here, Stanley!” Stanford slurred. _“You_ do! You stay, I’ll go, and that’s that!” He sucked down the last of his sixth beer and slammed it down on the table. “Frankly, I’ve had enough abuse for one night,” he grumbled, quickly stood, and pushed his chair back. “G’night Fiddleford, I’m sorry you had to hear all that.” He doffed an invisible hat toward his former employee and turned to go.

            “Stanford, I love you, don’t go.”

            He froze in place and his head snapped toward his brother. Stanley stood, balled his hands into tight fists and glared at him. “You heard me. I love you. I have always loved you and if you go I feel like I might actually die. Do. Not. Go.”

            McGucket’s eyes grew wide but he kept quiet and made his posture as small as he could.

            Stanford looked at him as if his head were on fire. “You _can’t.”_

            “I do.”

            “You can’t!” Stanford shouted, his face already reddened from drink now glowing crimson.

            “Too bad! I love you! I love you I love you I love you, you asshole, and I know you love me.”

            Stanford flinched as if someone had peeled a bandaid off too quickly. “No, I don’t.”

            “Yes, you damn well do.”

            McGucket’s eyes flicked from man to man. Slowly, he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels in the middle of the table and stealthily drained a few shots into his gut.

            Stanford grit his teeth.  “We _can’t.”_

            “Why not?”

            “Because it’s wrong, Stan!!”  Stanford’s were a little slurred, but his anger had given him focused clarity. “There’s no way it can work! It _never could!_ I’ve tried so hard for decades to scrub that from my mind, and now you want to fan the flames?”

            “I love you and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about it!”

            “You _can’t!”_

            Seeing tears in his brother’s eyes, Stan pushed. “But I _do!”_

            Stanford growled and pushed him against the wall. Stan’s head hit the plaster and stars came to his eyes. “No, Stan. No! We are not children! This is not a game! We _can’t!_ ” He gripped his shoulders and shoved him again. “Let it go!”

            “Never. You love me, I know you do, damn it. _I know you do!”_

            Stanford looked off to the right.

            “Stanford. Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.” Stan reached up and put his hands over his.

            When Stanford’s eyes darted back to Stan’s they were full of tears and anguish. His lips trembled. “But we _can’t…”_ he whispered.

            Stan remembered that the pained expression on his brother’s face tore at his heart so fiercely that he moved involuntarily, reaching out, pulling his face close and covering his mouth with his. Stanford let a small moan of distress escape as they kissed and it almost seemed as if he would reciprocate and for a split second, Stan thought, hurray, I’ve won. It’ll all be ok, now.

            Then Stanford punched him in the gut.

            Stan didn’t see the look on his face because Stanford had turned and fled the room so quickly. He doubled over, his knees gave out, and he slid down the wall to the floor in contorted pile of hurt. He cried out after him but he was gone. When he was finally able to right himself, Stan was surprised to find McGucket had taken a seat beside him on the floor, the bottle of Jack in his hand. Stan blinked at him for a moment, unable to comprehend how this man had sat through the entire exchange without fleeing the room, then swiped the bottle, took a long pull and handed it back.

            “He’ll come ‘round,” McGucket said quietly. “Love’s a funny thing. It don’t die, no matter how much ya try ta kill it.”

 

            “...and then ya pounded on his door a while afore I was able to drag ya off to bed.” McGucket concluded. “I checked on Stanford and he was a might reticent, but hurtin’ just the same. I’m sure he’ll come ‘round.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Mebbe now that we’re all three of us young bucks again, he’ll be more amenable to your charms.”

            “You really think so?”

            McGucket smiled compassionately. “Well, there is still the matter of y’all bein’ twin brothers to git over, but at least now ya got a good piece a time to work on it!”

            Stan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re a good guy, McGucket, ya know that?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been a very popular fanfic author and I think it's because I write what I want, not what I think people will want to read. I hope some of you still want to keep reading, despite what you might think about this chapter. (Ok, I may be drinking right now, but seriously, I love you guys).

            “Wendy!” The oldest of her three little brothers called up the stairs. His voice was changing, which was hilarious. “You got a visitor!”

            “Weh?” The teen puzzled, looking up from the corny young-adult-fantasy-romance book she’d been reading. Lately, she’d taken to reading total garbage, completely unironically. The more of them she read, the more convinced she became that she could write better crap than these ‘authors’ could. She _lived through_ cooler stuff than they wrote about!

            Wendy gave a heavy sigh and placed the bookmark. Whoever it was who’d come to visit, it couldn’t be one of her friends. They’d have texted first. No one just _visited_ people anymore. She snorted imagining Thompson or Lee or somebody arriving on her doorstep in a suit and top hat and giving his calling card to her brother. “Oh, man. I gotta write that down,” she said to herself and shouted that she would be right down.

            Soos wasn’t old enough to just pop by, he’d call or text, too. Stan might be old enough, but he’d never visit. Besides, if it was someone she knew, her brother would have said so, right?

            As she rounded the landing, she saw the visitor standing in the foyer—a slim young woman in a trench coat. Her brown hair was messy and enormous hipstery horn-rim glasses slid down her nose as she looked up at her. Wendy made a face that conveyed vague annoyance and confusion as she descended the stairs.

            “Miss Corduroy?” the young woman asked. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re the only woman I know…”

            “Yeah that’s great, except I don’t know _you.”_ She raised a brow and folded her arms. What was this? Some sort of practical joke? Was she hiding something gross under that ratty trench coat? And what was with that get up, anyway? What was she doing, cosplaying Stanford Pines?

            The visitor pouted. On closer inspection, her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed and made Wendy instantly sorry for being so cold toward her. The woman pulled her hands from her pockets and wiggled her fingers at her—all twelve of them. “I’m afraid that you do.”

            Wendy gaped at them, then to the trench coat, up to the dimple in the woman’s chin, her brown eyes and hair, and goofy glasses then grabbed one of her hands and dragged her upstairs without another word.

 

            The teen slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, staring at the woman now awkwardly standing in her room. She went straight to the windows on the opposite side and clutched her hands behind her back.

            “Dr. Pines?!”

_“Ford._ Please…” Ford whispered, turned to face her and lowered her chin.

            Wendy circled her. Ford stood about the same height as Wendy, perhaps a bit taller, but appeared to be somewhere in her twenties. “No. Way. No _flipping_ way! What did you do?!”

            “I didn’t do this. It was done _to_ me.”

            “Ok. Why? Who did you piss off?”

            “I… I’m not sure,” she balked. “I woke up this way after a night of drinking too much alcohol.”

            Wendy blinked at her. She had a hard time imagining Stanford Pines getting drunk, but once the image was in there, it was in there. Wendy sat down on the edge of her bed and looked at the woman with sympathy. “Whoa. Dude, I’m sorry.”

            “Is being a woman that terrible, really?” she replied. “That’s not exactly the reaction I was hoping to get.”

            “No! I mean, well, actually, it kinda is, but…” she shook her head. “Dude. This is messed up. I do not know how to deal with this. Does Stan know?”

            “No!” Ford shouted, eyes wide with fear. “No. He doesn’t. Not yet.” She started pacing. “I’m in a pickle, Miss Corduroy, and I was hoping to get your assistance. You see, I’m familiar with female anatomy only from textbooks and…”

            “Oh. My god,” Wendy gasped. “You’re _really_ a _girl!”_

            Ford sighed and stopped pacing. “Yes. Much to my chagrin.”

            “And you want me to do what, exactly? Teach you ‘how to girl’?”

            “I…” Ford looked up at her but the words wouldn’t come. “I have no idea.” Her lower lip trembled and she turned away to face the windows. “I really haven’t the faintest idea what to do.” As she turned, Wendy’s heart twisted. She stood and folded her arms around herself.

            “Hey, I’m sorry I made you think being a girl sucks. It doesn’t… _too bad,”_ she said under her breath. “This is gonna be a little weird for me because you’re my boss’s brother and all, but I can help you.” She pulled open her dresser drawers and removed several pieces of clothing. “First thing’s first. You need clothes that fit. Here. My yoga pants should fit you—nice and stretchy, and this big ol’ tee shirt is super comfy. Your feet are… _smaller_ than mine,” she grumbled. “So, here’s some flip-flops, and a pair of these, and one of these,” she held up the last items, a pair of white cotton panties and a white skin-tone colored brassiere and noticed that Ford hadn’t turned away from the windows yet. She put the clothes on the bed and her hand on Ford’s shoulder. The young woman was crying, silently. Her mouth arched into a tight pout and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Hey, it’s ok. It’ll be ok…” she said, her voice going up in pitch in a way that reassured no one.

            Ford sniffled. “I’m not so sure about that.”

 

.x.

            It took some doing, but about an hour later Wendy had managed to cajole Ford into returning to the Shack. The teen opened the front door without knocking and called to her employer and friend. Instantly, footsteps were heard pounding down the stairs toward them.

            “I... I can't do this!” Ford cried and backed up into Wendy.

            “Yes you can,” she gently pushed her forward. “It's just Stan!”

            In a panic and unable to free herself fast enough, Ford removed her glasses and hid them and her hands in the folds of her overlarge borrowed tee shirt.

            Two men rounded the landing and thudded down the stairs. “Wendy!” one of them shouted. “You seen my brother? He's missing!”

            The second man with glasses was hot on his heels and reached out to calm him down. “Stanley, ya might wanna take it easy...” he offered and gave Wendy a reassuring yet sheepish smile.

            Her jaw hung open in shock. “What the...?” Her brain processed his name. The voice checked out, the nose certainly was his, and the jawline, but this dark-haired hunk-of-a-guy was Stan Pines? He’d been made young as well? Her grip on Ford’s shoulders slacked.

            Ford's face flushed crimson as she saw the two of them, but was not as stunned by their appearance as the younger woman. She grasped the multi-use watch on her wrist and secretly pressed a certain button. From the distant gift shop, the distinctive sound of the vending machine swinging open made both men’s heads snap in its direction.

            “Stanford!” Stan shouted and bolted for the basement door.

            “Stanley, wait...!” Fiddleford called after him.

            Using the confusion to her advantage, Ford peeled away from Wendy and fled out the open front door and into the woods.

            Wendy pivoted to try to catch her, but was too dazed. She shook her head. “Dude, what the hell is going on?” she muttered and slowly entered the house, mulling over what she'd seen but could not wrap her brain around. In the gift shop, the other man was talking in quiet tones. “... don’t think he’s messin’ with ya. I'm sure it was just a malfunction. He'll be back when he's ready. Why don't you go have a lie down for a spell.” Stan agreed, citing his headache returning. He slinked off to bed, giving Wendy a sad, distracted wave as if absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary and the other man turned to face the teen. He was dressed in a pair of green pants with suspenders over a red, plaid flannel shirt with ugly green crocs on his feet. The entire outfit looked like something a man three times his age would wear. “Howdy, Wendy. Long time no see.” He grinned deviously and let a light, unmistakable cackle escape.

            “McGucket!?”

            “The same!”

            “Holy crap! Oh man, no wonder Ford looked so pissed!”

            “Ford...?” His eyes widened. “Oh! That was…! But why is he a woman...?!”

            “She doesn't know why, either.” Wendy shrugged. 

            “And why is he—uh— _she_ angry?”

            “Dunno. She's super afraid of what Stan will think, for some reason.” She folded her arms and frowned. “But all three of you are young now? This makes _no_ sense!”

            “As most things in this town, correct?” McGucket laughed lightly, unsure of how much he should tell her at this early stage.

            “Well, yeah, but...”

            He narrowed his eyes. “Thank you for bringing her home, Wendy. I think I know where she went. I’ll catch up with her and see what I can do to help.”

            Wendy turned to go but hesitated. “Hey, uh, take good care of her, ok? This has really messed her up. She was _crying.”_

            McGucket pursed his lips and nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

            In the lowest level of the basement, McGucket approached the console with not a little bit of trepidation. He pulled out the ratty 80’s task chair and carefully sat down. “Oh my,” he breathed. “This takes me back.” His jaw hung open and he cried out “It takes me back!” McGucket clapped a hand over his mouth in surprise. “I remember everything. _Everything!_ My mind is…” he blinked a few times, startled by the realization. “My mind is whole again. Oh, Blue Fairy, I’m whole again.” The young man wept softly for a few moments, letting his mind wander and revelling in the cohesion of his thoughts, the ability to control what tracks the the train took as he jumped from one set of equations to another, to memories of going to school with Ford, to coming to work for him and to…

            The portal.

            He glanced up at the darkened window between the control room and the portal room and held a breath. “I remember everything,” he said quietly. “And I know how it all played out. We survived. We conquered. It’s ok. It was terrible, but it’s ok,” he repeated and took several calming breaths, gathering himself. “And I’m gonna make this work, by gum. I been given a tremendous gift. I will not squander it!”

            He adjusted himself in the chair a little and leaned over the console. At the top left were three buttons marked US, B, and PA below a thin, adjustable metal tube. “Upstairs, Bunker, and Public Address, if memory serves,” he said with a laugh. “And it does!” McGucket took a deep breath, furrowed his brows, pulled the tube toward him and pressed the B-button. “Stanford? Are ya there? It’s Fiddleford. I’m alone—Stan’s napping. Uh…over?” he said, and released the button. He waited about thirty seconds before trying again. “I spoke to Wendy. She’s terrible worried for ya. I am, too. Can ya ‘least let me know you’re there? Please? Over?”

            Twenty seconds passed before a woman’s voice crackled across the line. “I’m here. Stop saying ‘over’.”

            He sighed in relief. “Can I come over? I mean, not ‘over’, that is—uh—” he laughed “Can I come see ya? I think we need to talk.”

            A moment later she replied “I’d rather _not.”_

            He raised a brow, “What? You gonna live down there all by your lonesome?”

            “I _can.”_

            McGucket frowned until an idea struck him. “I bet ya don’t know why this happened, do ya? I happen to know. Would you like me to tell ya?” he teased. Silence. “I just want to chat. I won’t make ya do a thing you don’t wanna do. I promise.”

            The line opened and he could hear her sigh. “Door’s open,” she said simply.

            Fiddleford grinned and slapped his knee. “Hot dog!” he said before pressing to respond “be right there!”

 

.x.

            The excitement that McGucket initially felt when he thought he was closer to fulfilling the Blue Fairy’s mandate vanished as he hiked to the bunker entrance. True to her word, Ford had left the stairs open for him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, remembering the few times Ford had required his help with some experiment or other in the bunker. It was never good. He pushed the latent dread he felt down and descended the familiar wooden steps into the gloomy, grey depths of the bunker.

 

            In the shelter area, Stanford Pines was busy cleaning. McGucket stared at her as she crossed the small space, dusting, removing empty tin cans, and trying to tidy up. Her borrowed flip-flops slapped the concrete floor as she went. In addition to the strange clothes Wendy lent her, Ford had found one of her old lab coats to wear. It dwarfed her frame and the sleeves were rolled up several times to fit her slim arms. “Did Stan tell you the kids were down here?” she said, neither greeting nor turning to face him. “They got through to the labs, can you imagine?” she asked with a chuckle. “The Shapeshifter had freed itself and they fought it and won! Don’t go in there, by the way. He left us a rather _disturbing_ present.”

            “No worries of that,” McGucket said and he observed her frantic obsessive-compulsive behavior.

            Ford saw a cannister out of place on top of the weapons cabinet and reached to get it. Her hand was a good six inches shy of her goal, but she pressed her body against the cabinet and stretched and stretched, standing on her toes to reach. She gasped as McGucket came up alongside her, took the canister in hand easily, and passed it to her. Ford hesitated for a moment, the spell of giving in to the comfort of her OCD broken by his intervention, then took the can from him and threw it across the room. “Why!?” she screamed. “Why, Fiddleford?! Why are you and Stan men and I… I’m…” She ran her hands over her short hair, brought them down and tried to fold her arms across her chest in an automatic gesture but was flummoxed trying to put them either above or below her breasts. Finally she gave up and flopped down on the cot. “Why?” she whispered.

            “I don’t rightly know,” he answered and seated himself on the other side of the cot, giving her plenty of space. “What did you wish for?”

            Ford sat up and frowned at him. “Wished?”

            “On the blue star last night. I heard Stanley make his, and I know what mine was. What was yours?”

            Her eyes grew wide. “A Blue Fairy, seriously?” She scoffed. “So, where’s the cricket?”

            McGucket gave half a grin and one raised brow. “Lookin’ at him.”

            “Oh no. _Your_ my conscious!?”

            He laughed. “Don’t panic. That’s not what she asked me to do. What did you wish for?”

            “What did she asked you to do?”

            “I asked first.”

            She let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, do you remember everything from last night?”

            “I do.”

            Ford cringed and McGucket waited patiently for her to continue. A pained expression came over her face, but his kind smile soothed her. “I wished that we could be _acceptable,”_ she whispered. “When we were teens, our dad caught us kissing and beat us so badly…I’ve never been able to get over it. Ever since then I’ve worked so hard to repress my feelings. It’s too taboo. Ever how faulty my moral compass may be, I’ve always felt that way. When things got tough for Stan, I turned my back on him out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, that I’d drag him down with me. But after everything that happened, everything I did to him, he still loves me! But we can’t possibly _be…_ I wanted there to be a way that we could be acceptable to people. I wanted to be able to love Stan without anyone telling us we’re wrong—that everyone would somehow just _get it_ and I wouldn’t have this conflicted feeling like I’m being torn apart, wanting so desperately to love him back yet being repulsed by the idea at the same time! And _this_ is what I got,” she growled and indicated to her breasts. She pushed herself up and slowly paced toward the door. He hadn’t been very hopeful that a breakthrough could be made, but as Ford spoke, McGucket wondered if this change in physiognomy had an effect on the otherwise utterly pragmatic scientist’s mind as well.

            “Fiddleford, do you know that there are thousands of people in this country who call themselves ‘transgendered’?” she asked.

            McGucket raised a brow at the digression and at the calm that seemed to descend over his former employer. He decided not to question it fundamentally and to be the best listener he could be. “Really?” he asked.

            “Wendy told me about this. I had no idea it was so prevalent, but so much has changed in thirty years. There are some people who feel that they were born one gender, but inside, they’re really another. They go through hell trying to live the way they want, and here I’ve been given a perfect, surgery-free sex-change that any transgender person would kill for and _I didn’t even ask for it!_ ” she shouted as tears came to her eyes. “My stupid wish has ruined everything. I had to go and destroy what little chance there was...” Ford stood by the door with her back to McGucket.

            He folded his arms. “Now, how do you know that?”  
            “Because he loved _Stanford_ , not...whatever _this_ is!”

            McGucket scoffed lightly. “No offense, Stanford, but aside from your appearance, other than bein’ a tad more open with yer feelings than ya been in the past, it seems to me that you haven’t changed one iota.”

            She raised a brow. “I haven’t?”

            “No ma’am—uh, forgive me. And, it sounds to me like the Blue Fairy _did_ grant your wish.”

            It was her turn to scoff. _“Really?”_

            “Now, now, bear with me. I think she heard your plea, to be acceptable to most folks, and interpreted that into makin’ one of the two of ya the opposite sex. She musta figured this way if you and Stanley went walkin’ down the street hand-in-hand no one would think a thing of it—certainly that you weren’t twin brothers!”

            She took a deep breath. “Sure, but…”

            “Stanford, now you’re just makin’ up excuses. If yer so concerned about what Stan’s gonna think ya best ask him.”

            “I’m scared,” she admitted.

            The pitiful look that came over her got McGucket to his feet. He held out his hands as if weighing the options. “What’s worse? Worryin’ what might be, or knowin’ and dealin’ with the truth?”

            She rolled her eyes as if to say she knew he was right. “Fine,” she said quietly. “Two conditions: first, tell me what the Blue Fairy asked you do to, _Jiminy.”_

            “I haven’t really told Stan yet, because he was so upset, and since I didn’t know what had happened to you, I wasn’t sure if it could be done. She said that if you and Stan don’t come to terms before the star rises again tonight, everything goes back the way it was. I’m not trying ta guilt-trip ya inta nothin’, and I know right now you’d rather it did revert, but I gotta say, I like having my sanity back!” Fiddleford made a sheepish face. “And I know Stan’s glad he ain’t rode-hard-n-put-up-wet no more, and I know you want to be with Stan… As long as you can be ok with bein’ a lady, I don’t see how this can’t all work out for the best. So whaddaya say?”

            Ford hung her head. “I guess, I better try. Condition number two: break it to him for me?”

            Her friend smiled kindly on her. “Sure thing, Stanford.”

            “Fiddleford?” she asked as they made their way up the sylvan steps.

            “Yeah?”

            “Call me Ford.”

            “Ooh! Short for Aph-ford-ite?”

            “No. It’s A _phro_ dite, anyway.”

            “ _Affordite_ , Goddess of love and inter-dimensional travel!”

            “No!”

            “But it’s _perfect!”_

            “Just call me Ford!!” she shouted, turned around and punched his arm.

            McGucket grinned back like a fool because, to his delight, the young woman was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trans!Ford is go! Maybe? Depends on how Stan handles it in chapter five... Will they make up and keep their changes as the Blue Fairy said? And what will Tate McGucket do when he meets his new, young dad...?


	5. Chapter 5

            “Stanley?” McGucket asked while simultaneously knocking and letting himself into his bedroom. Stan moaned and turned away from him, pulling the comforter over his shoulder. His bare feet stuck out. “Hate to wake you, but… I found Stanford.”

            Stan threw the comforter off and leapt out of bed. “Where was he?!”

            “Now, calm down,” McGucket urged and closed the door behind him. “There’s somethin’ you gotta know first.”

            Stan’s face fell. “What is it? What happened?!” McGucket urged him to sit down and he did so, slowly, on the edge of the bed. “Oh god, is he ok?”

            “Fine, fine,” the southerner reassured him. “Just a little… different. See, you and I woke up young men, and, well, Stanford woke up a young _woman_.”

            Stan blinked at him. “Woman,” he repeated the word as if it were unknown to him.

            “Yes, indeed.”

            “You’re shittin’ me.”

            “No sir, I am not. And she’s a might nervous to see ya. She wanted me to tell ya a’fore ya saw her for yerself. Please be patient with her.”

 _“Her.”_ Stan repeated and rolled his head to the side. “You really mean he’s…”

 _“She’s,”_ he corrected him.

            Stan grimaced. “Shit. _Seriously?”_

            “Is that a problem? I mean, in regards to your feelin’s for Stanford?”

            The young man seated before him slumped his shoulders. “I dunno,” he admitted and stared at his hands for a beat. “Is she ok?”

            “I think that depends on whether the two a ya can come to an understandin’. She needs you, Stanley.”

            He looked up at McGucket, brows arched in worry. “Yeah?”

            He nodded and put his hands on his shoulders. “Be calm, give her some space, but if you’re sure of how ya feel, let her know. I’m gonna head out and give you two some time together. I better go see Tate, anyway.” He made a face.

            “Shit,” Stan hissed, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that McGucket had his own rather difficult problems stemming from this transformation to contend with. “How old’s your son?”

            “Thirty-six,” he chuckled darkly. “Wish me luck!”

Stan stood and clapped his left arm. “Thanks, McGucket.”

            McGucket nodded and they emerged from the bedroom. He pointed Stan to the living room then turned and exited through the back door, stepping out into the sunshine.

 

.x.

            The walk into town was just lovely. Without aching bones to wear on him, Fiddleford McGucket strolled slowly along Gopher road, hands in the pockets of a borrowed corduroy jacket. The sun filtered through the pines and golden aspen leaves and there was a fresh, earthy, fall scent on the breeze. For a while, he meditated on the changing of season, his breathing, the dappled sunlight, and nothing else as he walked into town.

 

            Gravity Falls hummed with activity this Saturday afternoon. Traffic and pedestrians passed him by and not one person recognized him. It was an eerie feeling, to be sure. Even these days there was usually someone who would say something under their breath to their friend or some child would throw something at him. He cringed remembering that last week, someone threw what was left of their ham sandwich at him and he caught it in his teeth and ate it.

 

            Soon, McGucket found his feet had taken him home.

            He stood in front of the dilapidated structure in the center of the junkyard and sighed, wearily. “Well, since I’m here…” he muttered and entered the shack.

            Inside, his eyes struggled to adjust not only to the darkness, but to focus on any one particular thing. The single room was cluttered with so much junk and minutia that it boggled his now clear mind. He walked around it in a daze, picking up a lightbulb here, a bit of motherboard there. “Junk,” he said with a scowl. “It ain’t nothing’ but junk, ya old coot!” He kicked the copper tub he’d used to bathe in and it clattered as it bounced off yet more junk. “Jumpin’ Jesus, this was my _life…!”_ he groaned and sat heavily on a stack of old newspapers. “This is what Tate had to put up with. No wonder he hates me. I was too daffy to even see it. If I hadn’t fried myself stupid…” he rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “No. No use feelin’ sorry for what’s passed. Now’s the time ta start over. If I can... If Tate don’t think I’m some sorta witch! Oh, what’s he gonna think, Havin’ a daddy what’s ten years his senior?” He held out his hand and did some quick math. “Oh, make that nine years, two months. Still… That’s if Stanley and Stanford can make up. If I go to Tate now an’ then tomorrow I wake up a coot again, what’ll that do to him?” he muttered and stood up. He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for—a torn photo of himself and his son before he went off the rails. “I can’t do it. Not to mah boy.” He dusted himself off and nodded firmly. “Tomorrow. When all’s right. When we know it all took, I’ll tell him.” McGucket pocketed the photo. “Ma—maybe.”

 

.x.

            Ford wore her old lab coat buttoned and it surrounded her like a white tent, her thin legs in the black yoga pants protruding from below its expanse. She held her hands behind her back in a typical, nervous, Stanford Pines pose. Her hair was the same length but appeared even fluffier than before. Until she ran a hand through her hair and Stan saw that she had six fingers, he was unable to process that the cute little woman in his living room was indeed his brother.

            Ford could feel Stan’s eyes moving over her and she clenched her jaw. “Hello, Stanley,” she said firmly, her voice feminine, but familiar all the same.

            “Ford…?” Stan whispered and slowly walked toward her. His brows arched, mouth slightly open in wonder as he took her in. Her brown eyes, same thick lashes, dimpled chin, her nose a little more like their mother’s, now. She pouted and suddenly averted her eyes.

            Stan couldn’t stop his hand. He reached forward and his fingers only just brushed her cheek before she jerked away.

            “Please, don’t touch me!” the young woman cried out and backpedalled until she hit the wall behind her. Seeing the hurt splashed on his face as Stan stopped short, Ford winced and tried to explain. “I mean… Please, just...I’m not...”

            Flustered, Stan put his hands up and took a few steps back. “I just want to comfort you, Stanford!” he shouted, voice cracking. “This is killing me! I been worried sick about you!”

            “Don’t you think I know that?! I just…I’m not…!” She lowered her chin and stared at the carpet. They stood very still for a moment as Stan calmed himself and apologized for raising his voice. Ford let a ragged breath escape and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not comfortable with this. I’m not sure how I feel about suddenly being a woman,” she said.

            Stan frowned. “Stanford Pines, I ain’t been whole since the day Dad kicked me out and finally, after forty years of _agony_ I got my other half back and now you wanna talk semantics?! I love you no matter what, you idiot. Period. Full stop.”

            “I realize that, Stanley!” she barked at him. “You know, this isn’t one-hundred-percent about _you!”_

            He bit the inside of his lip and remembered McGucket’s advice. _‘Be calm, give her some space…’_ “Sorry. Sorry. You’re right.” He kicked himself for behaving in a brusque insensitive manner, much like his brother used to, and turned his attention to the woman before him, putting his own heartache aside for now. “Does it feel _bad?”_ he asked, cautiously.

            The glance Ford gave him was reassuring. She still wanted to talk. “Not bad, just, _so_ different. It even feels as if my thoughts don’t form in the same way that they used to. For example, I think that I’ve cried more times today than I have in my entire life!”

            Stan made a face. “You think that’s a bad thing?”

            She raised a brow. “Yes?”

            He rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s _not._ It means you can actually express your feelings. Maybe that’s what’s throwin’ you for a loop, Ford. You can actually _feel_.”

            She pouted at the implied insult, but could find no fault with the reasoning. “Ok. _Perhaps_. But...”

            “So how do you feel?”

            Ford hugged herself tighter. “I just told you.”

 _Patience,_ Stan repeated the mantra in his head. _Have patience._ “You said you feel different. How so?”

            _“I don’t know!”_ Ford hissed through clenched teeth and shook her head, tears coming again.

            Stan resisted the impulse to reach out for her and instead put his back against the wall a foot or two to her right. He let out a slow, calming breath. Another long silence passed filled only with the pitiful sniffling of the woman next to him. Stan tilted his head back and contemplated the ceiling. As he breathed in and out he did his best to push down the desire to pull her close and kiss away her tears. The task was arduous, but he knew McGucket was right. Right now his former-brother needed space and reassurance, not smothering.

            “I feel like I’m not quite _me_ anymore. And I’m afraid that…” she took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that I might not feel the same way I did about you.”

            Stan’s hangover came roaring back with her words and the room spun a little. If not for the fact that he was leaning against the wall, he might have fallen down. After a moment, he collected himself and dared to speak. “Oh shit, you’re gay and you don’t wanna be with me now that you’re female!” he fretted.

            Her face flushed crimson. “No! I mean, I don’t think so? It’s hard for me to tell, because…” she stared at the carpet again. “Y-you were the only one.”

            Stan spread his hands wide against the wall behind him to steady himself. “I was?”

            “Yes.”

            “Wait,” Stan cocked an eyebrow. “Is this about sex or love?”

            “What does that matter?”  
            “Do you still love me?”

            Ford’s posture straightened. “That’s irrelevant!”

            “If it is, then this is about sex.”

            “Well of course it is! Just yesterday I was a fifty-eight-year-old man infatuated with his twin brother and today I'm this! How the hell do you expect me to know how I feel about you now?!”

            He grinned to split his face. “Ha! You _do_ love me!”

            Ford gaped at him. “You are _impossible!”_

            “No, Ford. I'm _easy._ You're thinkin' too hard about this. Do you love me any less than you did yesterday?”

            She balked.

            “Do you?”

            She was clearly conflicted and Stan could tell from experience that the look on her face was one his brother wore on the rare occasions that Stan was right about something. And judging by the redness of said face, he was very, very right. Stan put his head against the wall and took a deep breath. He couldn’t get cocky now, he’d pushed her buttons a little, and if he was going to follow McGucket’s advice, he’d better cool it. Remembering his sage words again, Stan silently thanked him. “When McGucket told me what happened, I wasn’t sure what to think,” he said softly. “So I didn’t. I just ran out here and I saw you and all I wanted to do was hold you close to me.” Stan pushed off the wall, took a few steps into the room and turned to face her. “Take a good look at me, Ford. Don’t _think._ What do you _feel?”_

            She looked up from the carpet slowly and pushing her oversized glasses back up, she humored him and looked. A chill shook her as she took in the young man before her. She didn’t remember him looking this good on that fateful, horrible day thirty years before. Then, he’d been fat and dirty, his hair was long and cut in a mullet. This man looked more like a grown-up version of the teenager she had made furious awkward love to back in the sixties, the one she loved unconditionally, that is, until she had allowed the world to tear them apart. Ford frowned and blushed.

            “It's ok to let it go, Ford. We don't have to be cagy about it anymore, ever again.” Stan sighed. “Do you think I’d only love you as a man?” he asked quickly. She flinched but didn’t answer. “Hey, believe it or not, I been with a few women! I liked it. _A lot._ I liked being with you, too. But you were the _only_ guy.”

            Ford’s face cooled back down as she contemplated this new information. “After our argument last night,” she whispered. “I wished for there to be a way we could be acceptable to people. I just don’t want to feel so _guilty_ anymore.” She dared to look up, directly into his eyes.

            Stan scoffed. “Yeah, that’d never happen. People are jerks. I mean, there’s some good ones, but most of them just can’t wrap their brains around love that comes in different packages. Let alone twin brothers! I dunno, Ford. Sounds to me like you got your wish.” He smiled the most sincere, loving smile she’d seen in decades. “You’re just gonna hafta deal with being a cute…no, pretty...no! _beautiful_ , young woman who I can love as openly as anyone. I know it’ll take time for you to get comfy with that idea and your new shape, but I got pretty good at hangin’ in there these last few decades. I’m gonna be patiently waiting right here for you.” He opened his arms and shrugged. “Stanford Pines, you’ve always been my true love and you always will be, and if I gotta wait a while longer for a hug, I’ll wait.”

 

            He only had to wait exactly three seconds.

 

            The dam broke and Ford launched herself at Stan and clutched him tightly, bawling into his chest. Her slight frame shuddered as she sobbed and Stan encircled her with his arms and shushed her, stroking her hair and rubbing her back. He rocked her side to side, and with all the restraint he could manage whispered incomprehensible gibberish espousing his joy for and dedication to her.

            Ford’s shoulders relaxed and her breathing calmed. She listened to the pounding of Stan’s heart in his chest and inhaled his scent—the same scent from her deepest memories of the two of them tangled together on the deck of the Stan-o-War in much happier times. She rubbed her cheeks dry on his sleeveless shirt and breathed deeply. “Oh!” she said in a ragged gasp as if having a religious epiphany. “I fit. I _fit,_ Stan.”

            He loosened his hold on her and looked down into her brown eyes, a bit puzzled. “You fit?”

            “It feels right. I _feel_ like this is right.” She snuffed a little and blushed. “However, it will take a little while for me to be comfortable in my own skin and I hope you can have patience with me—I know well that you must feel...” she cleared her throat, “... _frustrated,_ right now and I don’t mean to tease you at all, and…”

            “Ford,” Stan said, cutting her off. “No problem. I’m yours.”

            She chuckled. “I haven’t even seen _myself_ naked yet! I closed my eyes when Wendy lent me these clothes!”

            Stan laughed and cupped her face in his hand. “Ya look pretty great to me.”

            “I realize that,” Ford said and grinned. “The… uh… feeling is mutual.” She beamed up at him, marvelling at his smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the way he looked on her, and feeling of his large hands, one cradling her chin, the other resting on her lower back. Craning her neck to meet his lips, Stanford Pines whispered “I love you, Stan,” for the first time in more than forty years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^_____________^  
> Yay! Happiness!! Ah, but poor McGucket...! What will Tate think?  
> Also, I just had to change the rating... A future chapter now has teh sex in it. Which I have never written before, let alone put on the internet. Oh my.


	6. Chapter 6

**.x. Monday Evening .x.**

            When McGucket made it back to the Shack, he found the two of them drowsily lounging in the dilapidated yellow armchair in the living room. Stan sat properly and Ford was curled up against his chest with her posterior between his thighs and her legs draped over the chair’s left arm. McGucket had the sense to shout to announce his arrival, and it had woken them from their slumber, but only slightly. Embarrassed, he made to excuse himself, but Ford clumsily extracted herself from Stan’s lap and inquired as to the time.

            “Just gettin’ on five-thirty,” he replied warily.

            “Didja talk to your son?” Stan asked, stretching his back. He seemed surprised that it didn’t protest as he did, and he grinned, revelling in its like-new condition.

            “Naw, I chickened out. Looks like you two worked out yer problems?” He waggled his eyebrows at them and was both surprised and amused to see Ford blush.

            “We did,” she admitted. “All is well.”

            “Well, that’s a relief!” he exclaimed, but soon deflated. “Well, guess I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow,” he said and turned to go.

            “Where the hell you think you’re goin’?” Stan’s friendly growl took him by surprise. “The damn junkyard?”

            McGucket froze in place. “Well, I…”

            “You can stay here, Fiddleford. Please,” Ford took a few steps toward him. “After all you’ve done for us, it’s the least I can do to offer you solid roof over your head. That is, if you don’t find that it brings up too many bad memories…”

            He spun around. “No! No, the memories aren’t _bad…”_ he began. “T’warnt this place what made me wanna erase it all…” He shook his head. “That is to say I would be much obliged if I could crash here. Thank ye kindly.”

            An awkward, but not unpleasant silence descended on the livingroom broken by the gurgling of Stan Pines’ stomach. “Clearly, I’m starvin’! You cook, right, McGucket? Whip us up somethin’!”

            The three of them laughed and threw together some pasta and sauce and had a nice meal together (without a drop of alcohol). Later, after a few hours of idle conversation, they retired to separate bedrooms: Stan to his, Ford to the couch in her room, and McGucket to the attic (which in late September was still warm enough to be inhabitable). Stan kissed Ford goodnight and she apologized for wanting to sleep alone this first night. He told her he understood, but she could tell that he was saddened by her choice.

 

            As Ford tried to fall asleep that night, her mind raced, undistracted by the silence around her. She wondered at her train of thought and how it kept coming back around to how Stan _felt,_ even how _McGucket_ felt. She knew very well that she hadn’t given much consideration to anyone’s feelings before today and this bothered her more than a little bit. She found a pad of paper and pen and wrote about her thoughts on the subject of empathy well into the wee hours of the morning.

 

**.x. Tuesday Morning .x.**

            Daylight broke and the sun inched into the room. The first thing Ford thought was ‘oh, I was up late writing’ as the book tumbled from the couch to the floor. The next was ‘oh, my hands are so small.’ She sat bolt upright and shuddered then cautiously felt her chest. “Ah. Still female,” she said and the image of Stan’s youthful face smiling at her, eyes half-lidded, flooded into her mind like the sun through the window and she scrambled to the door.

 

            Stan woke to kisses. This thought played through his mind a few times as he regained consciousness. His right arm reached up to stroke her hair and he purred into her lips. “Ford,” he muttered, “wow I hope that’s you…”

            She laughed, leaning over him from the left side of the bed. “Who else, pray tell, would it be?”

            He grinned and with the speed, dexterity, and strength now afforded him, scooped her up and pulled her into bed with him. She didn’t protest and they lay there kissing for several minutes until they remembered that they had a house guest.

            “Poor Fiddleford,” Ford whispered.

            “You worried about him because of his kid?”

            She nodded. “We have each other, but Tate is all he’s got. As I recall, you said that he didn’t get along with ‘Old Man McGucket’, so I imagine that if he’s presented with a father now ten years his junior he’s not going to take it very well.”

            Stan huffed. “Maybe he could use that Blind Eye gun on him.”

            Ford gasped. “How could you even suggest that?!”

            “What? He makes him forget about the crazy old man—he gets to start over with him as, I dunno, a long lost cousin or something.”

            “Even if that would be acceptable, the Blind Eye gun has its _obvious_ detriments…”

            “Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Ugh, no pun intended!” Ford smacked his bicep lightly. “Oh, hey. I just thought of something that might help,” Stan said and sat up in bed. He wore his favorite tank top/boxer combo and as Ford sat up as well she muttered something about how they both desperately needed to go shopping. She wore the same clothes she had borrowed from Wendy the day before. “A bunch a years back I, uh, I worked for this Or...ganization.” He raised a brow and grinned. “Hey, I don’t have to pussy-foot around you—you’re a member!”

            “A member of…? Oh! The _Secret_ Order of the Holy Mackerel?!”

            Stan nodded.

            She smacked his bicep again and grinned back. “You _worked_ for them?”

            “Field agent!” he said and puffed out his chest. “Hey, maybe now that I’m young again they’ll take me back!”

            Ford’s eyes practically turned to stars. “That is so cool! I never had the time to work for them, but I loved writing the reports and…” Her smile fell. “Oh good lord what day is it?”

            Stan blinked at her. “Fourteenth, fifteenth, maybe? Why… oh shit the report’s due in a month.”

            Ford began to say something panicked about deadlines but stopped and blinked back at him. “You’ve been submitting my reports?”

            “Thirty years.”

_“Really?”_

            “So hard to believe?”

            “Stan, I wrote just about every report you ever handed in back in school.”

            He frowned. “Well I did! I mean, they weren’t _long…”_

            “Ok. We can do this.” She extended her hand and counted off the tasks. “Less than a month to write about everything Dipper and Mabel experienced, anything you did before they arrived, my arrival, Weirdmageddon, and now this!” Ford panted lightly. “Sure. I can do it. No problem!”

            Stan pulled her into his embrace. “Calm yourself. I’ll help. We’ll get it done. Now, before I was distracted...” he teased. “What I was gettin’ at is, I remember this one time when I was out in the field with the SOHM, we had this _entity_ that needed an _identity_. So they used this sorta magic coin to make it one. It sort of wedged them into the world, gave ‘em a paper-trail, no questions asked. Pretty slick. Maybe they could do that for McGucket. Hell, maybe even for us!”

            “A Book of Life Token, I bet,” Ford said quietly. “Exceedingly pricey, but thorough.”

Stan raised a brow. “Pricey?”

            “Well, yes,” Ford pushed her now ill-fitting glasses up her nose. “A Book of Life Token can insert or remove a person’s identity in the present and backwards in time. Oh, you’re right, it would be perfect for all three of us!” she chimed and leapt out of bed. “I’ll contact the SOHM right away!”

            “You do that, I’m gonna head into town. You need anything?”

            Ford paused and stared at him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

            He raised a brow as if to say _‘you’re really asking if I ever wonder if my actions are wise or not?’_ “I gotta go see my own ‘son’.”

            She clenched her teeth. “Ah. You’re not going to… ah…”

            “I dunno how much I’ll tell him right off the bat. Wendy doesn’t know that aspect of the change yet, does she?” Stan asked as he slid out of bed. Ford shook her head. “Good. That’s not somethin’ I wanna think about yet. Tellin’ them or the kids. The kids. Jesus Christ, I don’t wanna think about that yet!”

            “Then don’t,” she said firmly. “One thing at a time,” Ford advised, but his jaw was still set with worry. “The tokens and the report will give us plenty to think about.”

            He hummed. “Gettin’ us some new duds is also important. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll go to the mall after I see Soos.” He smiled. “We can walk down the halls holding hands.”

            Ford blushed. She agreed that she should return Wendy’s clothes sooner than later and Stan teased her about all the frilly dresses he was going to buy her.

 

**Chapter Interlude - THE SECRET ORDER OF THE HOLY MACKEREL**

 

            Founded in 1923 by a tight, inner-circle of high-ranking Royal Order of the Holy Mackerel (ROHM) officers, the Secret Order of the Holy Mackerel (SOHM) was originally a secret club in which these men could discuss the occult in a free and uninhibited atmosphere.

            Some of its most famous members were magus Anton LaVey, singer Busi Mhlongo, inventor Nikola Tesla, Dr. Timothy Leary, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and writer William S. Burroughs, though all were sworn to secrecy and would certainly have denied it if asked. Women were always accepted as members, but initially the group was so secretive (and unattractive) that none were approached to join. The first woman to join was Delilah Waters, an experimental chemist, in 1933. She held the chairmanship from 1937-39.

            Membership is by invitation only and prospective members must have an active member serve as their mentor. It usually starts by joining the ROHM (a legitimate and public 501(c)(3) fraternal organization that serves to benefit those in need similar to the Elks, Lions, Moose, etc.) but people outside this group have also been courted. Unlike the ROHM, there are no considerations of legacy membership in SOHM--each member must prove their own merit.

            The SOHM chairman (who serves a two-year term and cannot serve more than two years consecutively) leads meetings, which are held quarterly seven days from each solstice and equinox in a different location every time. There are no paper or electronic documents held by the SOHM, nor does it have an insignia or any other identifying marks. The way in which it records its minutes and other information is completely secret. The SOHM does not hold its own funds and there are no paid employees, no fundraising, and no treasurer in order to remain completely secret, even and especially from the eyes of the government--one of its greatest foes.

            The mission (as of 2012) of the SOHM is as follows: “To protect and preserve the Mysteries of Earth from those that would harm or exploit them.”

            SOHM members are usually field-ready, meaning they have spent years studying, researching, and handling “the Mysteries”, which are defined by them as any para- or supernatural entity or item or any entity or item unexplainable by science. This includes cryptids, ghosts, demons, angels, humans with paranormal/natural abilities, etc., as well as non-sentient phenomena such as vorpal plants, glow-clouds, and hell-mouths. Their reach extends only to Earth-based Mysteries. Upon discovery, extraterrestrial Mysteries are to be referred immediately to the Men in Black. Generally, extra-terrestrial entities or items are not considered Mysteries as they are scientifically explicable (albeit alien in nature).

 

            Filbrick Pines was a member of the ROHM. When his son Sherman turned 18 in 1966 and when his son Stanford turned 18 in 1972, he signed them up as members. Stanford Pines brought his banner and fez with him to Gravity Falls in 1976. Two local ROHM members, Justin Zumgai and Farb Wrongbuton paid him a visit shortly after he settled in and asked if he’d like to join the local club. He declined to attend meetings, telling them that he was too busy with his research to be an active member. Zumgai would return a week later, alone, with an invitation to join the SOHM. Pines was intrigued but also a bit concerned that the Order would hinder or restrict the research for which he was given a grant, but as scientific study into the causality of interdimensional traffic does not qualify as a “Mystery” as defined by the SOHM, he was reassured it would not, and decided to join. Pines sent reports on his research into local Mysteries once a year before the thirty-first of October to the SOHM, which was glad to receive them.

 

            In the fall of 1982, his annual report did not arrive as expected and the SOHM sent a representative to check on Stanford Pines. Stanley Pines was, at this point, almost a year into the charade that would become the next thirty years of his existence. He was adept at impersonating his brother to those that had known him (explaining he’d had his pesky extra digit removed), but the SOHM folks were immediately suspicious. Hoping that the SOHM might help him retrieve his brother, Stan told them everything. They couldn’t, but due to the unusual circumstances he’d found himself in, and their desire to remain as clandestine as possible, the SOHM accepted Stanley Pines as a member. A few years later, an incident in Gravity Falls would elevate his status to Field Agent as he worked with the SOHM to solve a deadly Mystery. But that is another story…


	7. Chapter 7

            McGucket woke late having slept surprisingly well on Dipper’s lumpy, old mattress. Running a hand over his stubble, then examining the hand, he smiled in relief. The spell had taken. He remained a young, sane man. He rolled onto his back, stretched out and stared at the ceiling. Cobwebs hung everywhere and a bird’s nest was tucked into the corner of the rafters. “Sheesh,” he grimaced. “And I thought mah junkyard was bad. This place could use a good once-over. Heh, maybe now that Ford’s a lady she’ll be more mindful of such things.” He sighed.

 

            By the time he wandered downstairs, Stan and Ford had been gone for an hour or more. He found himself something to eat and watched some television for a while. Then he roamed around and found a book to read. He remembered that there was a window seat in the upstairs hall through which the sun would stream, but when he ascended the stairs he recoiled in horror at the sight of it and dropped the book. He had forgotten that the window was a stained-glass tribute to Bill Cipher. Sunlight filtered through blood-red panes and spilled onto the floor. He staggered away from it and hastily retreated to the first floor once again. “Ok, maybe I spoke too soon about this place makin’ me want to erase it all! Dang it, Stanford. That thing has got to go.” Having run out of ways to procrastinate, he faced the music.

            McGucket stood in the foyer by the front door for a little while and tried to gather his courage. “Ah, a little _liquid_ courage won’t hurt none,” he said, popped into Ford’s room, and retrieved a half-empty fifth of rye from her liquor cabinet. He took a few quick swigs and slid the slim bottle into the pocket of his overalls on his way out the door.

 

**.x. Tuesday Afternoon .x.**

            McGucket stood in the little kitchen of his son Tate’s cabin at the lake and played with the cuffs of his flannel shirt. He hadn’t bathed in a few days, and though it wasn’t to the point of obviousness yet, he suddenly felt incredibly filthy. “Howdy, Tate. It’s me. Yer Pa. Surprise!” he parroted the line he’d repeated on the way over. It was absurd, but anything else would most likely have yielded the same results. Best to just get it over with.

            Tate was understandably puzzled. He questioned the young man who bore his father’s likeness and each answer generated another question delivered louder, more aggressively than the next.

            Yes, he was who he said he was.

            No, he wasn’t drunk (well, buzzed, maybe).

            Yes, there was magic involved.

            No, he did not expect to be able to waltz in here and everything would be hunky dory.

            Yes, he supposed it didn’t make anything better.

            No, he was right, the time had passed.

            Yes, he’d show himself out.

 

            When he’d walked about a mile back toward the Mystery Shack, McGucket pulled the fifth from his pocket and emptied it. “Good thing I went in with low expectations,” he muttered. “Woulda been mightily disappointin’ otherwise.”

            He could remember now, the day the State folks took Tate away. He’d been fostered by a nice couple on the edge of town, far from the junk yard that would become McGucket’s home, but not far enough from his name. As a young adult, Tate had tried to reach out to his father, but his lunacy was too high a barrier to overcome and eventually, he gave up. Now, Tate was thirty-six, nine years older than his father, or, former-father, as he had spat as McGucket retreated, “now I really _don’t_ have a father anymore. Thanks, _Dad._ This is the _one good thing_ you’ve ever done for me.”

 

.x.

            Stan and Ford burst into their quiet home that afternoon in a bustling explosion of shopping bags and chatter. Ford wore a pair of flattering black pants with little black flats like the kind Mabel liked to wear, and a large, red, boat-neck sweater. Stan had selected jeans with All-stars, a white tee-shirt, and a black leather jacket for his first ‘new bod ensemble’.

            They found Fiddleford sitting at the kitchen table and while they unpacked the groceries they told him all about their day. How they’d had a good meeting with Soos, who had guessed at the reason for Ford’s transformation thanks to his overactive imagination and fanfiction-writing prowess. He was ‘super-psyched’ for them, and glad to know that he wouldn’t outlive his ‘dad’ any time soon. Stan bragged about taking Ford shopping and watching guys check her out. He bemoaned the fact that she bought only one dress but Ford had promised to wear it at least once a month. He admitted that she did look pretty good in those tight pants she got, though.

            “How was your day, Fiddsy?” Ford asked, putting the last box of cereal in the cupboard and turning to face him for the first time.

            He shrugged and sipped from a coffee mug with a question mark on it.

            Stan clenched his teeth. “Did you, ah... go see your son?”

            “Yep.”

            Stan grimaced. “Didn’t go so good, huh?”

            “Nope.” And that was all he had to say on the subject. An intensely awkward silence was broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall.

            Ford folded her arms around herself and looked away then remembered their discussion before they left the house. “Oh! Stan had a great thought this morning!”

            “I did?”

            “We’re going to look into getting the three of us Book of Life Tokens!”

            McGucket raised a brow. “Book a wha?”

            Ford sat down across from him and spoke rapidly, excited by the prospect. “It’s a sort of coin that lets you start fresh with a new identity that everyone in the world instantly accepts as the truth. The downside is we’ll have to decease ‘Stanford Pines’ and I suppose ‘Fiddleford McGucket’ as well, but when we create new identities with the same token we’ll _really_ be able to start again!”

            McGucket’s brows came together and he stared into his coffee cup. “So yer sayin’ I gotta _die_ to _live?”_ he asked, voice at a near whisper.

            “No,” she replied, crestfallen. “It’s… it’s just an option.”

            Stan shrugged. “Yeah, but they probably won’t do it _just_ for him, we’d probably have to all go in at once.”

            Ford elbowed Stan to watch what he said about the Secret Order and he gave her a look. She attempted to clarify. “What he means is it would probably be _convenient_ for us if we all took tokens at once.”

_“Convenient,”_ he repeated and scoffed.

            Stan bristled at his sour tone of voice.

            McGucket got to his feet and swayed slightly. “Oh yes, that’s fine,” he snarled. “As long as everything goes well for Stanford Pines, everything’s just peachy!” As soon as the words had left his lips, McGucket knew he’d gone too far, his eyes widened for a moment, but it was too late. He balled his fists.

            The air was suddenly electrified as Stanley Pines took a half-step forward. He frowned deeply and growled maliciously “say that again, nerd, and you'll be missin’ more than just a chin!”

            McGucket weighed his options for about a half a second before deciding to run for it.

            _“Stan!”_ Ford cried and shot him a hurt look before running out the door after McGucket.

            Stan paused for a moment as he watched them go. “Damn it,” he cursed and slammed his fist down on the table. The coffee mug jumped and clattered. He raised a brow and sniffed the air. Detecting something amiss, Stan swiped McGucket’s mug off the table and took a swig. “Holy Moses, what is that, paint thinner?!” He scowled at the open door.

 

.x.

            “Fiddleford, wait!” Ford called after McGucket, caught up to him and grabbed his wrist. He stopped, but didn’t turn to face her. “He didn’t mean it. Well, he did mean that he didn’t want you to say something like that to me. It’s instinctual for Stan,” she said, releasing him now that she was convinced he wasn’t going to bolt on her. She wrung her unusual hands. “When we were kids I got bullied just about every day for my deformity. Stan would always get right in the bully’s face and call him out. Nine times out of ten he got his ass handed to him. When I begged him not to be so aggressive he said that as long as he could draw them away from me he’d do it every time, no matter how many cuts and bruises it got him. Once, it got his arm broken! So, I apologize for him. And for me. This must be so hard for you,” she said, dropping to a whisper. “First I get you wrapped up in Bill’s plot, then this wish thing, and it’s done nothing but bring you grief. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked on the edge of her tears.

            McGucket turned to face her at last. “Who are you and what have you done with Stanford Pines?” he asked slowly. “The old one woulda just told me ta go fuck m’self. Well, maybe not in so many words…”

            “He’s dead,” she whispered and pouted. “I’ll tell you, Fiddleford, being female is _so_ different!”  Ford exclaimed, quickly wiping her eyes. “I was up all last night worrying about how Stan felt, how you felt… I think being re-wired and finally accepting that I love my brother has kick-started a sense of empathy toward others that I had quashed so far down in my psyche I thought that the only way to live was without it. It’s not. I need Stan and I need friends. Like you, Fiddsy,” she added shyly.

            He blinked at her a few times and gave her pitiful look. “Are you serious?”

            Ford smiled. “I am. Come on back inside. You can stay with us until we figure something out.” She extended her hand. “I _do_ want everything to go well… for _all_ of us.”

 

.x.

When they entered the kitchen, Stan was pouring three fresh mugs of coffee. “Hey, nerd,” he addressed McGucket. “I made a fresh pot. Your cup went cold.” He stood and gaped at the man and was in such a daze he had to be handed the mug. “You know, coffee? Black? Hot? Good? You drink it!” Stan teased and gave him a wink.

“Oh, Stan, we’ll be up all night!” Ford chastised him.

“Relax, it’s decaf,” he said and leaned in to give her a peck on the forehead with such ease that it took them both aback for a moment. He gave a sheepish grin. “Look, uh, McGucket, I’m sorry I yelled at ya. I don’t know what came over me.”

McGucket breathed in the steamy, wondrously calming scent. “You were just trying’ ta protect the one ya love. No harm done, but I do accept the apology,” he added and sipped the hot coffee. The aroma, and the warm late-afternoon light coming through the kitchen window, and his smiling friends, all combined to give McGucket a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time. “Home,” he whispered low enough that they didn’t catch it. “Oh, but you were right about one thing—I don’t have a chin.”

They all laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The very first sex scene I've ever written, let alone published online, is here! :/

            Two weeks later, the three residents of the Mystery Shack fell into a fairly comfortable rhythm. The business remained closed for repairs (though ninety percent of them did not involve the museum or gift shop) as it had since the end of Weirdmageddon, though anyone calling the Shack could still speak to ‘Stanford Pines, aka Mr. Mystery’ on the telephone. When they did, he wasn’t feeling very well, he said. His nephew Stan and his girlfriend were in town giving him a hand, he said. And as expected, everyone bought it.

 

            McGucket appreciated the place to crash, and most of the time felt entirely comfortable in the house, but living with two people in desperate love with each other in the very early stages of a relationship forty years in the making was starting to get old. One day while he and Ford were working to renovate the basement into a functioning lab and workplace (Fiddleford’s favorite task was destroying then burning anything triangular to ashes), he heaved more than a few sighs and Ford finally picked up on the cue. “Something wrong, Fiddsy?” she asked as she drilled a final screw into a shelf bracket.

            “Oh, I dunno. Just dumb thoughts,” he said, idly cleaning the spaces between keys on a keyboard with a q-tip. He stopped when he realized that Ford had taken a seat next to him and was watching him with rapt attention. “Uh…”

            “Your thoughts are not dumb. Is it something you can tell me about?”

            He grinned. “I _really_ like this new you, Stanford. I really do. Yes, I suppose I can. Seein’ as you and your brother are lovers, I don’t think I can shock you with this!” he laughed and took a deep breath. “Did you know that I’m gay?”

            Ford blinked at him a few times. “Oh,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about that. You are?”

            McGucket stared at her for a beat before bursting out laughing. “Oh, Stanford, I had such a crush on you back in school! But you were such an oblivious nerd, I figgered you were a-sexual or somethin’. Gave up on ya. Settled for bein’ friends.”

            Ford furrowed her brows at him. “But you never dated any guys!”

            “Not that you or anyone else saw!” he replied. “It was the _seventies_ , remember. If I’d a come out I woulda been shunned by everything and everyone I needed to succeed.”

            Ford tried to apologize for her past behavior, but McGucket waved her off. What’s past was past, he said. It was the present that was the thing, and presently he was lonely. He thought it was wonderful that Ford and Stan had found each other, but their love was getting him down, he admitted. He hoped that one day he’d meet someone who’d make him happy, too. Ford stopped worrying the power drill in her hands and slapped it down on the counter beside her.

            “Well, what are we doing working down here?” she asked. “We should be building you a house!”

            McGucket cocked a brow. “A what?”

            She beamed and reached for a notebook and pen. “If you’re going to have a life of your own, and especially a _romance,_ you’ll need your own digs. Look, the lot looks like this,” she said and drew a sort of trapezoid shape. “And the Shack is on the southwest corner, which wasn’t the best place to put it for security’s sake, though, that was not what I had in mind when I first came here,” she babbled and cleared her throat. “It just depends on how far you want to be from this house and if you want to be on the town grid or mine.”

            “Yours,” he said without batting an eye. “How far away is this?” he asked, pointing to the other side of the trapezoid.

            “About a half mile. Hm, you’d have some loss running a conduit that far unless we go with fiber…” she chuckled and rubbed her hands together. “Of course we’ll go with fiber. Ooh, this is going to be so fun!”

            McGucket froze. “About a… a half mile? How much land do you own?!”

            “Oh, it’s about one hundred fifty acres.”

            “Jumpin’ jehosephat!”  
            “Too much?”

            _“So_ much!”

            “Eh,” she shrugged. “So you want to be that far away?”

            McGucket shook his head, realizing she could only pick up on so many cues. “Naw, just far enough so I don’t have to hear you two go at it,” he said and flipped his hand at her.

            Her face flushed bright pink, but she nodded. “Good, I don’t want to you to be a stranger!”

 

.x.

The following evening, McGucket took Stan’s car into town to see what if any nightlife he could find and Ford and Stan prepared to have an important conversation. Ford sat at the table in the living room in front of a laptop computer and followed a set of directions written in a thirteen-year-old’s handwriting.

            “You’re sure the camera’s off?” Stan asked again, pacing in front of her.

            Ford wore corduroys and a green turtleneck sweater that hugged her curves. “Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “I turned it off, but I also put tape on the lens just in case. Look!” She pointed to the top of the monitor at a bit of masking tape. “They won’t see us.”

            “You got your voice doohicky?”

            She nodded and scooped an object about the size and shape of a tin of tuna fish from the table and held it to her mouth. “I sure do!” Stanford Pines’ former baritone emanated from the speaker as if _she_ were still a _he._

            Stan recoiled. “Wow, that’s weird.” Ford laughed. With everything ready, she clicked to call Dipper and Mabel for their Skype appointment.

 

            Mabel’s face loomed large in the monitor and she waved wildly as she greeted them. Dipper could be heard in the background, unseen until his sister sat down in her chair. They were disappointed that the camera wasn’t functioning (and it was clear that Dipper was positive that the two old men just didn’t know how to work it). “Technology is all well and good,” Ford said. “But we thought we’d come visit!”

            “We did?!” Stan cried in alarm. “Stanford...!”

            She waved her hands in a calming gesture at him and worked out with the kids that they would drive out to California in about two weeks. When they finished the call, Stan slammed the laptop closed and scowled at her. “We did _not_ discuss this!”

            She turned off the voice-modulator and set it down carefully. “You never would have agreed to it. I had no choice.”

            “Are you insane?!” he barked, standing up and putting some distance between them.

            “When would be a better time, Stan? Thanksgiving? Christmas? We’ll go see them right after the SOHM brings us the Tokens. It only makes sense to do it as soon as that’s done.” Stan didn’t have an answer to that. Ford sat down on the edge of the table and folded her arms. “You know, I’m just as scared as you are.”

            “Got a funny way of showing it,” he grumbled.

            “We can’t hide from them for long and we can’t tell them something this important over this thing,” Ford said and motioned to the laptop. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather get this over with sooner than later.” Stan huffed. She crossed her legs and let a calm sigh escape. “Speaking of family, I ran some tests this morning, Stan,” she said softly. “DNA tests.”

            He raised a brow at her change in tone. “Oh? Why?”

            “Well, I had a rather disturbing thought the other day. Being that I am now female, and being that we will soon be having relations with each other, the possibility exists that I could become pregnant.”

            Ford kept talking but Stanley didn’t hear much else after the word ‘pregnant’. Immediately, his mind flashed through a montage of images of his pretty little Ford with a big belly, of her cradling an infant, of him bouncing a little baby on his knee and he was lost for a good while. Never before had the idea of having children crossed his mind and actually sounded like a thing he wanted to do. As soon as Ford suggested it was a possibility, it was as if his brain was rewritten and daydreams of what ‘our kid’ would be like drowned out the litany of medical terminology Ford was using to explain her fears about having a child with six fingers or perhaps no fingers at all.

            “Stanley? Hello?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face and he blinked in surprise.

            “Baby?” he asked.

            She chuckled. “Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. There’s no need to worry. When I compared my DNA to yours, Dipper’s, and Mabel’s, it’s sufficiently different that we’re hardly related at all! It would appear that the Blue Fairy took that into account when she gave me this form.”

            “So… Baby?” he asked again.

            The left side of her mouth tugged upwards. “ _Maybe_ one day, yes. More importantly, Stanley—focus now,” she said, taking his chin in her hand and making him look from her belly to her eyes. _“More importantly,_ this should dispel any concerns Dipper and Mabel might have about us being in an incestual relationship. Because on a genetic level, _we’re not twins.”_

            “We’re not?”

            She smiled and let go of his chin. “Not anymore.”

            “That’s good, right?”

            _“Yes!”_

            “Oh.” He frowned. “You coulda told me that before we got on the damn computer!”

            The corner of her mouth crooked up again, deviously. “I, uh… planned on making it up to you...”

            “Y—you did?” Stan asked and lowered his eyelids, dreamily, loving her silky tone of voice.

            “Mm. That’s the other thing I’ve been working on…” Ford took her glasses off, folded them slowly and set them next to the laptop. For the last two weeks she’d been carefully assessing her new form, studying both medical texts, women’s magazines, and consulting with an initially hesitant Wendy Corduroy, as well as thoroughly examining and conducting physical ‘experiments’.  It was an embarrassing slog, but at last, she’d decided she’d learned enough. It was time for a field test. Ford slid off the table, wrapped her arms around Stan, pulled him close and gazed up into his eyes. “I’m ready if you are.”

            Stan paused for a half a second, startled and delighted, before sweeping her up into his arms and practically running with her down to his bedroom, which would be _their_ bedroom ever afterward.

 

            In his haste, Stan nearly kicked the door off its hinges, set Ford down on her feet and showered her with kisses that she eagerly returned until suddenly he stopped, took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. “You’re not ready,” he said.

            Ford looked pleadingly up at him. “What?! Yes I am!”  
            “No you’re not, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

            She cocked her head to one side. “Stan, I’m trembling because I’m excited! I’ve spent the last two weeks psyching myself into this—getting comfortable with my body, but I realized that until you touch me, I won’t really know if I’m comfortable with you or not. I know how hard this has been for you, the waiting—the _wanting…_ because I feel it too. So please,” she said and stepped back up to him, taking his hands from her shoulders and placing them on her hips. _“Touch me.”_

            “Oh sweet Moses,” he breathed, pulled her to him and covered her with hungry kisses.

            Stan tugged off her turtleneck and he artfully unclasped her bra, gently pulling it off and marveling at her breasts. “Oh, Ford, you’re so soft,” he whispered and she shuddered as his rough hands moved over them for the first time. “That feel good?” he breathed.

            She hummed her approval. It did, but her heart continued to pound, and though she thought for a moment that perhaps it was her nerves and perhaps she should wait a little longer, his fingers brushed her nipples.

            Not nerves. Not at all. She got it now. Her heart pounded with lust for him.

            Ford reached out and unbuttoned his pants. She could already feel his erection pressing against her hips through the cloth and she knew just how much he must be aching for her. Her mind could conjure the idea of penetration from his perspective, but her own perspective still eluded her and as he reached a hand into her panties, Ford let a squeak of a moan escape and was blinded by a single and burning desire to find out just what that perspective was like. She reached down and ran a hand over his crotch.

            Stan’s cock was hard and already wet with anticipation of her. “Oh man,” he muttered. “You are… I’m… Ford, I might come too early…”

            Before she could process the thought, it erupted from her lips. “I can help with that,” she said, kneeled in front of him and pulled his pants down. Stan was dazed, but managed to kick his clothes free. He ran his hands through her hair and showered her with praise and expressions of wonder as her lips touched his aching member. Her six-fingered hands caressed his thighs, squeezed his ass, and played gently with his balls, doing her best to remember how he’d liked it all those years ago. This was the easy part, a familiar action that she knew would yield an entirely satisfying reaction. The hard part was contending with her smaller mouth and his larger cock. Stan was so ready for her, she could have tapped his dick with her pinky to make him come. Fortunately for both of them, Ford’s intimate knowledge allowed her to avoid being covered with his long-pent-up load. When he finished, Stan practically fell onto the bed and stared her. “Holy shit.”  
            “Was that ok?” she asked, demurely and unbuttoned her own pants. “Feel better?”

            Stan gave a sort of intoxicated laugh. “Yeah. Good plan, Sixer” he grinned, reached out and snagged a belt loop with his index finger, pulling her closer and helping her remove her corduroys. “Now I can make love to you,” he said, kissing her belly. “Nice and slow.” His lips moved higher, kissing her breasts, his large hands tugged her panties down and wrapped around the cheeks of her ass. “Oh god, you’re perfect,” he said, stubble scratching her soft skin. Ford could barely get free from her pants she was shaking so hard now. All she could think about was his cock. How much she wanted it inside her. But the thought of saying such a thing out loud made her almost nauseous with embarrassment. As he guided her onto the bed, laid her down, and bent to kiss every square inch of her, Ford felt as if she were on the deck of their rescued boat one cool summer day in June, far from prying eyes. She arched her back and moaned his name.

            “Say it again,” he begged her, one hand playing gently with a breast, the other dipping down between her legs.

            “Stan…” Ford repeated. “I want you so badly, Stan!”

            He hummed, teasing. “In time…” he kissed her mouth, slowly, luxuriantly savoring the taste while staring into her eyes with an intensity that took her breath away. All the while, his hands roved, tracing the line of her jaw, her collarbone, shoulders, the swell of her breasts, rise of her hips. Stan released her lips and, as if realizing he’d been a bit too intense, he made her laugh as he suddenly switched gears, sat up, pulled one of her legs up and started kissing her toes. Ford knew they could not have tasted very good, but he didn’t say a word about it. Instead, he worked his way up her shin, knee, thigh, and gave her a sultry look that she nodded her approval to before he buried his face in her lap.

            It was her turn to weave her fingers through his hair as he pleasured her. He would later admit that she was better at giving him head than he was her, but Ford forgave him, claiming that she had more knowledge about what got him off and suggesting that they had a long time to work on improving techniques. After all, she wasn’t entirely sure what worked on herself yet, either.

            Soon, she tugged at his hair and Stan obliged her request to switch gears again. His fingers found her entrance warm and dripping and his breath hitched a little with exhilaration. “So ready for me,” he whispered and wove patterns around her clit, teasing her. “Ford…love you so much,” he said. “S’like a dream.”

            She ran her hands up and down his hairy chest, loving the feel of his flesh, both soft and strong at the same time. “I…” she began, but the words caught in her throat. “I want…”

            “Anything,” he said, straddling her.

            “Want you… inside me,” Ford panted and he bent to kiss her, one hand on the pillow, the other in the drawer to his right, pulling out a well-prepared condom. Like an old pro, Stan slipped the rubber on and asked her a few more times if she was ready. Finally, Ford shouted “Please!” and he pulled her legs up over his and gingerly slipped inside.

            Ford gasped, a sharp, short, surprised cry of almost-pain and stared into his eyes, locked on hers. She had read that often ‘the first time’ was painful for a woman, but the word ‘pain’ didn’t seem to fit the definition of what she felt as he entered her. She remembered what he had felt like when Stan was a teen, how he had filled the only opening Stanford Pines had to offer, how the tightness of the sphincter, the pressure against his prostate, and the stimulation of his own penis had felt, and how yes, that first time had been painful (and unbelievably awkward). This pain was utterly different. They were adults, he was now she, and Stan was experienced with women. When he entered her, it hurt due to his size and her innocence, but the almost-pain sensation danced up her spine into her brain and down her extremities and rendered her instantly addicted to it.

            Stan asked her if she was alright again and again with each new motion, cautiously withdrawing his length and beginning a slow pace. She softly repeated only the word ‘yes’ for a long while. Her head tilted back and she hummed, writhing under him. Stan took her hips in his hands as he picked up the pace, deepening his strokes. Soon, Ford’s hands wrapped around his back and she begged him to fuck her. The expletive was like a shot of adrenaline to Stan’s heart. He grasped her hips, lifted her up and drove into her deeper and harder. Ford cried out his name and her fingers dug deep into his back as fireworks danced inside her eyelids and every muscle tensed around her orgasm. She could hear Stan below her name as he came as if from somewhere far away.

            By the time she was aware of herself again, Stan had taken himself out and disposed of the condom. He lay down beside her and pulled her close to him, soft, damp, warm, strong, and muttering incoherent pleasantries. “D’I do good?” he asked.

            Ford giggled softly. “Yeah, I think so. How’d I do?”

            “You’re a girl, alright.”

            She smacked him playfully. He took the abuse. Stan pulled the comforter up over them, snuggled close to her and mumbled a mash of sweet words of devotion as he drifted off to sleep, one arm under her neck, the other draped over her waist.

            Ford idly brushed his hair back in place with her fingers, smiled dreamily on her true love and wondered when he’d be ready to go again. “Thank goodness,” she whispered.

 

**.x. A few days after that .x.**

            Within a few moments of placing the small but heavy box of gold ingots (which Stan mourned as if they were having to put a beloved pet to sleep) on the designated stump in the woods behind the shack, a rainbow descended and the box magically emptied. A large, non-native leaf with the word ‘received’ burned into it in cursive fluttered down in the gold’s place. The Secret Order of the Holy Mackerel had taken their payment, and according to the highly-odd conversation Ford had with their representative (atop the highest branches of two pine trees through two tin cans with string attaching them), a ‘crone’ would visit them in the evening of the next first quarter moon (which would be Monday, October eighth) to deliver and install their new identities.

 

            Because the ‘Secret Order’ had to remain so (or Stan and Ford would face serious censure), they had to conceal some things about the process from McGucket. And even though Ford and Stan kept most of the overall weirdness from him, McGucket was extremely nervous and at the eleventh hour on that fateful Monday night, McGucket almost backed out. As he opened the front door to flee, he was taken aback by the figure standing on the porch—a small, grey-haired lady almost as wide as she was tall with her arm raised to knock.

            Her thick glasses obscured her eyes, rendering them fishlike and huge. She wore a heavy pout, a grey floor-length dress, and no less than three shawls. She held her gnarled fist aloft. “Eh? I get da right place?” she shouted in a thick, vaguely Eastern European accent. “Pines?”

            McGucket stammered but admitted that she was correct, let her in and trailed nervously behind her. Ford was all smiles and hospitality, which seemed to go unnoticed by the ancient woman. Stan tried to help her with the large, heavy-looking bag she carried and she yanked it away from him and hefted it onto the table in the living room herself. “Hokay, you three da ones?”

            “Yes ma’am,” Stan replied, slightly cowed by her unusual strength.

            She raised her chin, sniffed the air and nodded in agreement. “Hokay. Any changes?” They shook their heads. Everything they had submitted to the SOHM was still the plan. She opened the bag and rummaged around, pulling out a red and gold textile, some red candles with small brass holders and a finely carved ebony box. She reached into her dress from below her wide, fleshy neck and fished out a key on a chain to unlock the box. All three stepped forward a little as the box opened, revealing a plush, red velvet interior in which three large gold coins were nestled.

            Stan made a crack under his breath about how much more gold they’d given up to get them and Ford elbowed him.

            “Vhich one first?” the crone asked while readying herself. She spread the textile out on the floor and placed the candles in a circle around it. No one saw or heard her use a lighter, yet when she set them up, they flickered to life.

            “I’ll go,” Ford said. Stan put his hand on her shoulder and she could feel it tremble. She hugged him and gave him a reassuring kiss, whispering that it was going to be ok, then saying the same louder for McGucket’s benefit when she saw how pale he’d gone.

            The crone pointed to the cloth on the floor and told her to stand on it. “You is Stanford?”

            Ford admitted she was and the crone reached into the box, retrieved the first token and bade Ford open her palm. She placed the coin, decorated with an ouroboros—a snake eating its own tail—in the flat of her left palm and said nothing of her additional fingers while doing so. “Stanford Filbrick Pines born eighteen June nineteen hundred and-a fifty four. As of zis day, you vill be Aphrodite Ford, born zixteen August, nineteen hundred and-a eighty four. De identity known as Stanford Filbrick Pines vill decease Saturday, da tirteent of October, twenty twelve. Excluded from de effects of zis token are de following: Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, Stanley Pines, Wendy Berble Corduroy, Jésus Alzamirano Ramírez known as Soos, Mabel Eliza Pines, and Abel Sherman Pines, known as Dipper. Do you accept zis revision to the Book of Life vhich is permanent and retroactively effective immediately?” The crone recited the spiel in a sing-song tone, having little difficulty with the words, but her pronunciation made a few of them rather hard to understand were it not for the three having memorized them in the last week.

            “I accept,” Ford said clearly and the crone folded her fingers over the token and held her hand for a moment. Suddenly, Ford glowed with a golden light that seem to come from every pore—every follicle. It faded quickly as the crone released her hand.

            “It is done. Next?” she asked.

            Ford opened her hand. The gold coin was gone. Stan cried out, asking if she was alright. Ford was a bit dazed, but smiled that wondrous smile that said ‘I am both delighted and fascinated’ and told him that she felt a little effervescent, but otherwise unharmed.

            McGucket seemed only slightly relieved to see that Ford hadn’t mutated into a demon or grown wings. “Welp, I better do this now before I lose mah nerve!” he said and stepped forward.

            “Fiddleford Hadron McGucket born tirteen February nineteen hundred and-a fifty four. As of zis day, you vill be Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, Junior, born first January, nineteen hundred and-a eighty one. De identity known as Fiddleford Hadron McGucket vill have deceased Tursday, the tirteent of Zeptember, twenty twelve. Excluded from de effects of zis token are de following: Aphrodite Ford, Stanley Pines, Wendy Berble Corduroy, Jésus Alzamirano Ramírez known as Soos, Mabel Eliza Pines, and Abel Sherman Pines, known as Dipper. Do you accept zis revision to de Book of Life vhich is permanent and retroactively effective immediately?”

            “I do,” McGucket said gravely and closed his hand around the token. The same light glowed for an instant and he emerged unscathed.

            Stan clapped his hands together. “Ok. Let’s do this!”

            “Ha. I like-a you,” the crone said as she guided him onto the cloth. The short candles were almost completely burned down. “Hokay. Stanley Pines born eighteen June nineteen hundred and-a fifty four. As of zis day, you vill be Stanley Pines, Junior, born seven July, nineteen hundred and-a eighty two. De identity known as Stanley Pines vill have deceased Sunday, the fourt of July, nineteen hundred and-a eighty two. Excluded from de effects of zis token are de following: Fiddleford Hadron McGucket Junior, Aphrodite Ford, Wendy Berble Corduroy, Jésus Alzamirano Ramírez known as Soos, Mabel Eliza Pines, and Abel Sherman Pines, known as Dipper. Do you accept zis revision to de Book of Life vhich is permanent and retroactively effective immediately?”

            Stan sighed. “You bet.” The token was dissolved into his being and he closed his eyes. When he opened them he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked to his true love and to his friend and smiled. “We can start again.”

            “Zo it is done. Goot luck, kiddos.” The crone packed her things back up and the three showed her to the door. It did not surprise anyone that there was no obvious method of transport waiting for her, or that after they closed the door then opened it again moments later, she had vanished.

            “Did that really just happen?” McGucket asked after she’d gone. “I mean, how do we know we weren’t just hoodwinked to the tune of several thousand dollars?”

            Stan clenched his teeth. “Why’d ya hafta suggest that?!”

            “Calm down. I’ve already thought of a good test,” Ford said and gave Stan a kiss on the cheek which calmed him instantly. She picked up the phone and dialed a long-distance number. “Deb? Hi, it’s Ford,” she chimed. “No, everything’s still on for Friday. Yes, we do, we should arrive around four. Ok. See you then,” Ford chimed and hung up. “Just as I thought. Dipper and Mabel’s parents are looking forward to meeting Stan’s girlfriend for the first time.”

            Stan’s expression raced from relieved to ashen. “Holy fucking shit we have to tell Dipper and Mabel.”

            McGucket pursed his lips. “It’ll be fine, Stanley. They love you. Just think about how easily Soos took it. Or me! Then again, I was insane and intoxicated at the time… and Wendy came around once she wrapped her brain around it. You’ll be fine.”

            Ford surprised McGucket as she gave him a hug. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Tate.”

            He hugged her back. “It’s better this way. Can’t say I’m keen to find out what he thinks’a his long-lost half-brother anytime soon.” He made a face. “We’ll run into each other eventually. It can wait.”

            Ford then embraced her ‘boyfriend’ and commented on his stern expression and repeated that everything would be alright. Stan nodded, but didn’t agree.

 

.x.

            Stan worried himself almost sick for the next two days. Whenever Ford asked what was wrong, he’d say he was just nervous or some other nonspecific excuse. He slept poorly and Ford was unsure if he was fit to drive. Stan grumbled that he’d be fine—and he was, though the trip was a quiet one. They left on Thursday, stopping at a motel in Northern California for the night. The room was cheap and terrible, and a combination of a loud air conditioning unit, a car alarm going off, and a couple arguing in the room next door very late into the night kept Ford (who was used to complete silence) awake all night. She dozed in the car the next day, but not restfully, until they arrived just before four in the afternoon in Piedmont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! What's eating Stan?? Is he having second thoughts about this very permanent change?? Find out, in the final chapter of ...Wish I May... coming soon!  
> PS: To anyone who really did not care for teh sex in this chapter, I do humbly apologize. It really was the first time I've ever written such material but I just thought it was important to show how Ford dealt with it. :/


	9. Chapter 9

**.x. Friday afternoon, Piedmont, CA .x.**

            They sat in the Stanley Mobile for a few moments after Stan turned the engine off. He’d pulled it up to the closed, left-side garage bay of a pale blue mid-sized ranch house on Garden St. The right bay stood open and empty. He contemplated this for a moment, wondering if someone was out, but said nothing. Ford got out and slowly circled in front the car. He watched her move, trying to calm his racing heart. Ford walked with her chin held high, just as she had always done, nose in the air as if she found everything around her interesting. She ran one of her precious hands down the strap of the small messenger bag she was using as a glorified purse. Stan watched the wrist glide, the fingers guide the strap over her shoulder, between her breasts and breathed deeply. “God, you’re perfect,” he muttered.

She stopped in front of the driver-side door and opened it for him. “Come on, Stan,” she said, gently. “It’s almost over.”

            “I know,” he said and hesitated a moment before climbing out of the car. Stan stood facing her and looked up at the house he’d only visited a handful of times in his life before: a Thanksgiving or two, and one horrible Christmas many years ago, back when his mother was still alive and had just moved from New Jersey. She had been so far gone by then that it was easy to conceal his identity from the rest of the family when she kept calling him ‘Stan’. He frowned as uncomfortable memories filtered in.

            Ford reached out with her right hand and touched the tips of his fingers, startling him. “I know you could use a hug more than anything, but I also know you don’t want me to do that right now.”

            He nodded. If she did hug him, he wasn’t sure if he’d cry or not, but didn’t want to take any chances.

            “So, just imagine that I’m hugging you tight,” Ford said kindly. “It’s going to be ok. They love us.”

            “I know,” he repeated, took her hand and they marched together slowly up the walk to the front door.

 

            Ford rang the bell and in moments the door swung open. Dipper and Mabel Pines stared up at the two adults on their doorstep with confused looks on their faces.

            Ford wore a pair of black leggings with an overlarge purple turtleneck sweater with black flats—an outfit that Stan had remarked that morning looked like something Mabel might wear. Stan wore jeans, Converse sneakers, and a blue and white letterman-style jacket. Ford waved then lowered a six-fingered hand and Stan laughed nervously. “Heya, kids. Long time no see,” he croaked in a slightly-younger but yet unmistakable voice. Even if they hadn’t been expecting them, there were enough clues to tip them off.

            “Grunkle Stan?!” Mabel shouted.

            “Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper asked.

            “That’s us,” Ford replied, giving a shy, hesitant chuckle. “May we come in?”

            The younger twins parted, allowing them to pass into the living room, then followed them in. Ford seated herself quickly on a long, blue, modern-looking sofa and Stan plopped down next to her, leaving a small space between them. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. Dipper sat on an ottoman and Mabel flopped down on the floor and sat Indian style and they both stared their relatives down, hard.

“It _is_ you!” Mabel marvelled at them, noting the dimple in Ford’s chin and her extra fingers. Dipper extended his right hand toward his sister and made a grabbing motion at the air.  She rolled her eyes, pulled a ten dollar bill from the pocket of her skirt, and huffing a sigh stuffed it into her brother’s hand.

            Stan raised a brow. “What was _that_ for?”

            Dipper snapped the bill a couple times, flaunting it. “We saw you in the driveway from our room and I bet Doubty McDoubterson here ten bucks that it was you.” He tilted his head to one side. “So what the heck happened?”

            Ford laughed lightly and looked around. “Well, uh… where are your parents?”

“Oh man!” Mabel guffawed. “Dad chopped his finger off and mom took him to the hospital!”

Dipper shook his head. “I do not know why you find that so funny,” he muttered. “He was slicing onions for dinner with a mandolin slicer and cut off the tip of his middle finger. They probably won’t be back for a while.”

“Oh, perfect!” Ford exclaimed with some relief. “I mean, that’s _terrible_ about his finger, but, at least we can talk to you about this, truthfully.”

The teenagers glanced at each other both wondering but not asking why that was.

            Ever how many times Stan and Ford had gone over what they would say and how they would say it when asked ‘what happened?’, they now found answering the question daunting when the large eyes of their thirteen-year-old twin niece and nephew were trained on them. Ford asked Stan if he’d like her to explain and he simply nodded. She started by mentioning that McGucket had also been reduced in age as Stan had, and she tried to dance around some of the more adult aspects of that night in September when they had wished upon a blue fairy star (yes, like in Pinocchio). Stan and McGucket had wanted to ‘start over’ and Ford had wanted…

            “Oh my god,” Mabel put her hands to her face and her eyes glistened with stars. “You _are_ in love with each other!”

            “Wait, what?!” Stan shouted. “How did you know?!”

            Ford’s mouth hung open and she blinked at the girl seated on the floor at her feet.

Mabel raised her left arm and made the same gesture that Dipper had made earlier. He looked from her to them a few times, then sighed and handed the ten he’d won back to his sister. “Mabel called it, like, the day after Ford came out of the portal,” he admitted.

            Stan had no words. He stared at the proud little girl on the floor, flashing her ten dollar bill and muttering sweet nothings to the 'ten dollar bill guy'. His other half, however, was shaking.

            Ford couldn’t help it. She tried to clamp a hand over her mouth, but the laughter erupted. “Sorry! I am so tired and that is incredible! See, Stan, you were worried about nothing!”

            “Heh, yeah. Nothing,” he said and shifted his weight, crossing his left foot over his right knee. The foot tapped the air rapidly.

            Ford sobered quickly as she noticed his tension did not ease. “We, eh, we were concerned that if you knew that we felt the way we do about each other, it might be a bad influence for you, and we didn’t want you to have to go through the same pain that we endured as young people.”

            “We had the talk,” Mabel said, glibly. “Dipper had to analyze the whole thing and we…”

_“Mabel!”_ Dipper cried, voice cracking.

            “What? _Dipper!”_ she mocked him. “They just admitted that they’re a couple, I think we can tell them that we…”

            “Nonononono….!” Dipper shouted, leapt up from the ottoman and ran from the room.

            “That we experimented and kissed and that it was _gross!”_ she called after him.

            “You did, eh?” Ford leaned toward Mabel, a keenly interested look on her face as if the word ‘experiment’ had a pavlovian effect. “That’s a relief. If you _were_ in love with each other, you’d know it. We knew quite early, didn’t we, Stan?” He simply nodded and didn’t meet her eyes. “Stan? Are you ok?” Ford put her hand on his knee. To her relief, he didn’t shrink from her touch. Dipper slowly returned to the living room and stood just to his sister’s left.

            “Kids, uh…” Stan began softly. “We were worried about what ya might think of us, bein’ an item and all, you bein’ twins yourselves, like Ford said. Soos was _totally_ ok with it and Wendy came around after a while, so that was good. And I’m glad you’re ok with it, too. Means a lot. Ford did some tests and she doesn’t have the same DNA as us anymore, either, so that’s good. I don’t think having to tell you about _us_ was the hard part of all this.”

            Ford’s brows pinched together. “Stan? There’s something that’s been making you upset and you didn’t tell me?”  
            “Yeah…” he admitted.

            She retracted her hand, recoiling as if he had hurt her. “I’ve been wondering why you were so tense, but I thought it was just about this. If that’s not it, then what is it?”

            He pursed his lips and gave her a mournful look that tore at her heart. “Having to tell them, that with the Tokens…the old _us_ are…”

Ford gasped lightly as she realized what he was getting at. She rubbed her hands together and once again offered to do the explaining. Stan simply nodded and Ford calmly, and as pleasantly as possible, told Dipper and Mabel what Book of Life Tokens were and why they’d purchased them. She explained that these magic items had the ability to insert an identity into the world back in time and forward so that she, Fiddleford, and Stan could have social security numbers, yearbook photos, and legal driver’s licenses. She told them about the crazy old crone who’d delivered and administered the tokens and lastly, the changes they would make to their lives.

“As you know, Stanley Pines ‘died’ in a car crash in eighty-two,” she said, making air-quotes. “Stan is now Stanley Junior—his own son. Fiddleford is also his own son, Fiddleford Junior. Old Man McGucket became young man McGucket, as it were. Stan had already taken my identity thirty years ago, so this world already thinks that Stanford Pines is Mr. Mystery, and so Stanford Pines is…” she got to the very point that had made Stan so sick with worry and it turned her stomach as well. It had been a hard decision for the two of them to make, but the taboo nature of their relationship had seemed to the pragmatic Ford to be of more concern than the disposal of two old personas. Having to explain it to the children, Ford now understood fully why Stan felt so nervous about it. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Mystery is ill and he’s going to pass in his sleep next Saturday. His nephew, Stan Jr. will take over the Shack.” Stan squeezed her hand so tightly she lost feeling in the tips of her fingers.

            Dipper’s mouth hung open, but he seemed to be processing and understanding what he heard. Mabel’s mouth screwed up into a heavy pout and tears glistened in her eyes. “So, Great Uncle Ford doesn’t exist and Grunkle Stan is gonna die?” she asked.

“Mabel… Sweetie…” Stan choked. Before he could manage to reach out for her, she leapt up from the floor and sprinted down the hall. Stan relinquished Ford’s hand and chased after her.

            Dipper blinked a few times, but did not overreact. He clenched his hands into fists and stared down at the young woman on the couch. She shifted her gaze from her departing mate to the colorful Ikea rug under her feet and tried her very best not to cry.

“Ford?” Dipper asked, and her eyes shot up to meet his. “Is there gonna be a funeral?”

 

.x.

            “Sweetie?” Stan whispered from the doorway of the room his niece had run into. It was windowless and shadowy, the shapes of clutter and boxes only suggested themselves in the darkness. Mabel sat on her knees facing a shelf and was feverishly flipping the pages of a book. Stan flipped the light switch to reveal a messy craft room, complete with sewing machine and a table covered with gaping boxes of glitter tubes, bits of felt, and colorful pipe cleaners. Mabel sniffled and stopped flipping pages. “I don’t understand…” she said softly. “Why do things have to change? Look, Ford’s missing. I know he was in this picture, but now there’s a space.” She held up the book and pointed to a photo of Dipper seated at the table in the living room, pouring over the journals. He was smiling and his mouth was open as if to speak, but there was now no one seated to his left to converse with.

            Stan clutched the doorframe with his right hand to steady himself as he was presented with evidence of their actions. His brother, whom he had fought for so long to get back, was missing, but also sitting in the next room, worrying about him.

When he had asked that same question ‘why do things have to change’, weeping over the steering wheel a few days after being kicked out of his childhood home, there was no kindly father-figure nearby to reassure him. He wanted to tell Mabel everything was going to be alright, reflexively lie the pain away, but this wasn’t some rube, or even himself—this was his Mabel. She deserved better. They both had to swallow the bitter pill of their new normal and hopefully come out healthy. “Life’s funny like that,” he said, thinking of all the hundreds of times his life had been changed forever in the almost sixty years of his existence. “Things change. Old men die.”

            “You weren’t that old!” she sputtered.

            Stan’s blood ran hot. “Sweetie, ya gotta understand, if I don’t bury the old me…” He knew it was a poor choice of words as soon as it left his mouth and he cringed.

            “Everything was _fine!”_

            Stan clenched his fists but took a deep breath. “Not for me and Ford, it wasn’t.” When she hung her head, he joined her on the floor--the flexibility of his young joints still a surprise to him.  He took in the shelf in front of them, already packed with a dozen or more scrap books, protruding with photos and studded with sequins. The spine of one of the books read ‘Summer Romances’, another ‘Braces Selfies: 2011-2012’. “Mabel,” Stan said softly. “Bad things happen—sad things, hard things—but good things happen, too. People fall in love, friends come together, _babies_ get born…” he added, but it didn’t seem to be sinking in.

            Mabel slapped the book in her lap closed and hugged it to her chest. She glanced up at him, heartbroken tears staining her face. “Ok, fine, but why do you have to _die?”_

            Stan’s own heart burst and before he could think about what he was going he reached out and pulled her into his lap, a little awkwardly, but she just melted into him and sobbed. When she calmed down a little, he kissed the top of her head and released her. She sat back down on her knees just in front of him, still hugging the scrapbook close. “Oh, Honey, I hope one day you love someone so much that you say to yourself ‘I would die for you’. Then maybe you’ll understand how I feel about Ford. When I lost him—when he fell through the portal—-I _killed myself off._ You remember the clipping, ‘fiery car crash’?” He made quote marks with his fingers. “I died for Ford then and it was easy because I didn’t think I was worth anything. Literally no one missed me. Not even my family.” Stan paused. “It’s been eatin’ me up inside, havin’ to tell you and Dipper this ‘cause I knew how much it’d hurt you and that’s the only reason it’s hurtin’ me. I know you’ll miss your old ‘Grunkle Stan’, but frankly, I’d die a hundred more times for Ford if I had to.”

            Mabel sniffled and her eyes widened. “That is so sweet,” she said softly.

            “Make sense?”

            She nodded.

            “And hey, I’m right here! Not goin’ anywhere anytime soon, and in thirty years, you’ll get to see the old Stan again!”

            Mabel laughed and rubbed her eyes.

            “You ok now?” he asked.

            She pursed her lips and made a ‘thinking’ face, then nodded.

            “Wanna go back out?”

            “Yeah.” Stan stood and gave her a hand up. Before they left the craft room, Mabel grabbed two more scrap books and a big box of fancy colored pencils. She bundled them under one arm and took Stan’s hand with the other and beamed up at him. “I got an idea!”

 

.x.

            Ford blinked at Dipper. He stared into her large, brown eyes with such intensity it was hard to look away, and when she did, Ford felt a chill and hugged herself. “I don’t know,” she replied. “He… Stan hasn’t said anything about it.”

            “Are you kidding?” Dipper asked, alarmed. “You’re gonna kill Grunkle Stan off and you don’t even know if you’re gonna have a funeral?”

            She bristled and before she could stop it, Ford snapped back. “Actually, it’s _Stanford_ Pines who’s gone--whose body will somehow magically appear in its grave next week. He took _my_ identity, so it’s _me,_ not him. He killed himself for my sake thirty years ago!” Tears came to her eyes and she clenched her fists tightly, angry at herself for losing control and frightening her nephew. Her lip trembled and she looked away, out the window at the neighboring houses. “There’s a tombstone and everything. Did you know that?”

            “No,” Dipper replied, taken aback. He rubbed his elbows nervously. “I—I didn’t. I’m sorry. I…”

            Ford turned back and noticed his contrition. “Oh, Dipper, I’m sorry… I’m just overtired and I…” The tears flowed unchecked and she shook her head. “You must be so disappointed.”

            “What? No! Why would I be?”

            “Your Great Uncle Ford is gone and _this mess_ is left in his place.” She wiped her face on her sleeve and gestured emphatically to herself. “Stan thinks I make a good girl, but this weeping business is just too much!” she sputtered.

            Dipper leaned forward, unsure if he should touch her, if it would help or just make her cry harder. “Hey, that’s not true, you’re still _Ford,_ right?” he asked, hesitantly. “You have your memories and your education and stuff, right?”

            She nodded. “Well, yes, but…”

            “So you cry now? That’s ok,” he said and got a box of tissues from an end table on the other side of the room. “I’m not disappointed. If anything, I’m sort of excited that instead of having a couple decades with you, I get most of my lifetime!” He handed her the whole box. The morbid desire to know if they would hold a memorial service for Mr. Mystery clung to him, but he pushed the impulse aside. His former-great-uncle didn’t need him prodding her about that right now. He knew from experience, from upsetting and then comforting his sister, that hurt feelings needed to be patched before a troubling issue could be properly handled. There would be a time and a place to discuss it, but perhaps today was not it.

            Ford blew her nose then smiled. “You certainly do. And I hope you and Mabel will still come back to visit us every summer. Oh! And Fiddleford and I are going into business together!” Ford beamed, her sadness fading by the moment. “We’re calling it ‘Ford Squared’.”  
            Dipper smiled, pleased to see that he’d succeeded in smoothing her out. “That’s awesome! How’s he doing?”

            Ford waved her hand. “So-so. His son rejected him, unfortunately. But he has us. And we’re going to build him a house of his own on the property!”

            As they were chatting, Stan and Mabel emerged from the craft room. Ford got to her feet and walked slowly across the Ikea carpet to meet Stan. She furrowed her brows and pouted at him, but wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He was a little taken aback at the public display of affection, but reciprocated and stiffened when she whispered in his ear to never ever hide his sadness from her again. He agreed and squeezed back until a piercing squeal broke the spell. Mabel was fangirling just as badly as Dipper had done when Ford emerged from the Portal and mentioned his journals.

            “Oh my god, kiss!!!” she demanded.

            Dipper tried to calm her down, but it was useless. Stan shrugged, said that he probably owed it to her anyway, and asked Ford for permission (to which she sputtered, flustered and embarrassed by the notion, but she didn’t exactly say no). He curled one hand around the back of her head, one around her waist and gave her a deep, but not overly racy kiss that melted the young woman. She clutched him to her and reciprocated with gusto while Mabel cheered as if her team just had won the World Cup.

 

            The couple seated themselves, hips touching, on the couch and chatted with Dipper and Mabel while waiting for their parents to return. Dipper and Ford made plans for that summer’s exploits and Mabel colored in her scrap book. “There!” she chimed, and turned the book to face them. “Better!”

            Seated in the chair to Dipper’s left in the photo at the living room table, she had drawn a very good likeness of her old Great Uncle Ford. “Since that token-whatsis took him out, I’m putting him back in!”

            Ford beamed at her work. “Very nice!”

Mabel told her she was taking art classes this year and the teacher was really good, but Ford insisted that she had a gift. Stan smiled and leafed through the pages of a scrap book marked ‘Old Stuff’. “Holy Moses!” he shouted and pointed to a picture from a Thanksgiving long passed. “Would ya look at that!” He turned it around to show the others. In a typical family gathering snapshot, Shermy, his son Alex, and brother Stanford Pines (wearing his trademark Royal Order fez) were hamming for the camera, drinks in hand. Just behind them, Deb was chatting with…

            “Stanley?!” Ford cried. “That is amazing!”

            A young ‘Stanley Jr’, the man sitting to her right, was in the same photo as ‘Grunkle Stan’.

            The kids were delighted by the image, but it was clear that the one most relieved to see it was Stan. He put a hand around her and gave her a squeeze. “Guess we got our monies’ worth, huh?”

            Ford put her head on his shoulder and smiled. “You bet.”

 

**.x. Epilogue - Five Years Later .x.**

            On a lazy Saturday afternoon, Ford leaned in the doorway to the ‘museum’ and felt the sun on her back. Dust motes danced in the wake of a half-dozen tourists gathered before her husband, Mr. Mystery, in rare form today. He pointed to the tired old antelabbit and made a crack about copyright to a patron who wondered why it wasn’t called a jackalope. Ford smiled softly and took a deep breath of the fresh air that blew in behind her mingled with mothballs, dust, and tourists. Any and all traces of the forward room she had built back in 1976 were long gone, and she wondered if one day the museum would also have served its usefulness. Would Stan give it up? He would miss being Mr. Mystery if he did, she thought, but maybe not that much. Ford watched him lead the tour from station to station, collecting extra fees here and there. Occasionally, she caught his eye, a glance up toward the door, a bemused smirk danced across his face, but he was still deep in character. Not until the tour was over and the guests filed past Ford heading for the gift shop did he remove his fez, lift up his eye patch, and give his wife a squeeze. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “You been drillin’ holes through me. Somethin’ wrong?”

            “Not a thing,” she replied softly. “Just preserving memories.”

            Stan cocked a brow. “Oh?”

            “I wanted to remember what things were like before everything changes forever,” she said simply.

            All the color fell from Stan’s face. “Holy shit, Ford, what’s goin’ on? Are you ok?”

            She laughed, knowing full well how irritating she was being. “I’m great,” she answered, put her arms around his neck and kissed him softly. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

            When Ford drew back, her pupils were large and her look soft. Stan froze in place.

            “You...you are? You—we’re—”

            “—Going to have a baby. Or _babies_ if we’re lucky. It’s too early to tell.”

            He chuckled, dumbstruck for a beat. “You serious?!”

            Ford laughed. “Yes, you knucklehead!”

            He pulled her close and kissed her deeply like a soldier returning from a tour of duty before shouting at the top of his lungs “I’m gonna be a father!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this bit of indulgence! I know it's probably not very popular to genderswap this way, but I don't care. I just write what makes me happy and I hope that a couple folks get some enjoyment out of it as well.   
> Some notes:  
> The memorial service for Mr. Mystery was held July 7th, 2013.  
> Stan and Ford were married, July 5th, 2014.  
> Soos and Melody were married June 28th, 2014.  
> Nikola Stanford (Nicky) Pines was born October 12th, 2016 and his sisters Cassiopeia Mabel (Cassie Mae) and Andromeda Maud (Annie) Pines were born November 6th, 2018.  
> ^____^


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